


to emerge anew

by im2old4thisotp



Series: My Canon-Compliant Works [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathtubs, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other characters appear but don't really talk so I didn't list them, Rimming, Screw you jeff davis you can't just change John's name because you're a fuckwad, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Versatile Derek Hale, Versatile Stiles Stilinski, but a very happy ending, copious references to The Alchemist, healthy amounts of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-10-07 15:05:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17368154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im2old4thisotp/pseuds/im2old4thisotp
Summary: (or 5 times Derek drew a bath for one, and 1 time he drew a bath for two)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rubyredhoodling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubyredhoodling/gifts).



> I saw some art that RubyRedHoodling made for the Sterek ReverseBang, and was immediately inspired to write a fic from it. It's been a long time coming, but I'm finally ready to post it! 
> 
> I tried to make this as canon-compliant as possible. Yes, from 6b. And let me tell you, writing from 6b was practically torture to my eyeballs and my logic, but I HAVE DONE MY BEST. This story starts basically in the last few minutes of 6x11, and each chapter will jump ahead a bit in time.
> 
> Thanks in advance for your comments. I appreciate you!

 

***********

**One.**

 

_ “I think best in a hot bath, with my head tilted back and my feet up high.”  _

_ ― Elizabeth Jane Howard _

 

************

 

Derek Hale was exhausted. Sure, he was a werewolf. Supernatural senses, ultra-fast healing, the whole kit-and-caboodle. But sprinting 10 miles and then crouching in an underground cave for five hours while a swarm of FBI agents scour the woods searching for you would make  _ anyone _ exhausted, not to mention cranky as hell and—as he looked down at his dirt-stained fingers and clothes—completely filthy.

He had arrived back to the apartment in rural Maryland a few minutes ago, listening carefully as he turned the lock for any evidence that his temporary home had been discovered. Satisfied with the silence inside, he kicked off his shoes. Deciding that his growling stomach took more of a precedence than his dirty clothes, he scrounged some leftovers from the fridge, heating them up in the microwave. As the plate turned, he found himself staring at the numbers descending, and going over the details of the chase in his head. They had followed him for miles through the woods before he stumbled upon the cave. Thankfully, the FBI agents got sidetracked by something and took their investigation east of his location and he was able to sneak away, otherwise he may have been having this dinner behind bars.

They’d been tracking him for months, through Georgia, North Carolina, now into Maryland. Today was the closest they’d come to actually catching him. In fact, they’d come  _ so _ close that he could smell the gunpowder residue on their boots. It had made him nervous to come back to the apartment, and he had taken extra time to make sure he didn’t have any stray agents following him. He needed to find a new home base soon—he knew that the longer he stayed in one place, the more likely it was to be found—but he was  _ so close _ to getting some real answers, and the target that the FBI had placed on his back loomed large and would never disappear unless he caught them.

The beep of the microwave interrupted his train of thought, and he mindlessly pulled the hot plate out and took it to the rickety card table to eat, shoving aside the papers and crime scene photos, and creating a small space to eat. The leftover lo mein didn’t smell all that appealing, but he couldn’t risk going back out again tonight, and the delivery guy was starting to get too comfortable with coming here. He’d have to find a new place soon.

The junky place he was living now was a far cry from the place he had shared with Cora in South America. They’d actually set up a nice apartment, far from hunter influence, and it had worked for a while—over a year, actually—until Cora had found herself a nice girl and not-so-politely kicked Derek to the curb. It was okay—he was happy that Cora had found someone to round out her prickly personality. 

He’d check in on Beacon Hills every once in a while through Peter, who actually seemed useful for information for a change. Almost like he was trying to make a fresh start, or something. Peter had tried talking Derek into coming back to Beacon Hills, but something always kept him from saying yes. It  _ was _ important for Derek to hear how Sti—how Scott and everyone in the pack was doing, though. Near the end of their senior year, Derek had lost touch with Peter for a few months, and when he finally reconnected and Peter had talked about a wild hunt and being erased, Derek was on his way to the airport before Peter had told him that they had taken care of it and that everything—and  _ everyone _ —was okay. He still found himself itching to go back, his mind constantly wandering back to Beacon Hills and the people that lived there. He refused to admit to himself why that was.

He tried to make it work for himself in Brazil, he really did. But he felt the stirring in his heart—the wanderlust was too strong. He was preparing, getting ready to leave for good, when word reached him about the mass slaughter of werewolves. After he investigated the murders less than 50 miles from where they lived, somehow INTERPOL had put him on a wanted list, which made travel much more difficult. He’d dodged and dashed around the feds from one end of the country to another.

Derek threw away the empty containers in the trash and began to strip, his body still aching, the healing slowed by his exhaustion. He needed a good, long soak. The only good thing about the entire apartment—the reason he had selected the place, really, was that it had a vintage, clawfoot tub. It looked a little scary when he had moved in, like it hadn’t been cleaned in a few millennia, but a few rounds with some Arm-and-Hammer and it looked as good as new. 

The room itself was small—the tub was almost comically large in the tiny space, with a tiny sink and toilet—and the room quickly filled with the haze of water vapor. Derek threw some bath salts directly into the stream of hot water and slowly pulled off the rest of his clothes, wincing at a few of his more tender spots.

When the tub was full, he turned off the water and climbed in, hissing a bit at the temperature, but knowing his body would adjust to it quickly enough. The groan that he emitted when he fully sank into the water couldn’t be helped. It just felt too damn good for him to care.

He leaned against the end of the tub and let out a long, deep sigh. He couldn’t rest his mind for long before he started running through the details of the murders. He was frustrated. Nothing about what was happening made much sense at all—there was no discernible pattern, and the fact that his research had been compromised was a major setback. The killings were most certainly supernaturally motivated—all of the victims were weres. But  _ why _ didn’t make sense—how were these large groups of werewolves being outed in the first place? And who was coordinating the entire operation? It was harder to do research now that the FBI had targeted him—it was his own fault for getting too close to the last slaughter. He blamed exhaustion for touching one of the bodies without gloves—but he chalked it up to collateral damage. 

He was avoiding the words that had plagued him since Brazil—the words  _ Beacon Hills _ emblazoned in blood on a tin wall. He refused to think that Peter and Scott and any of the others were in danger. They were hidden. Their identities were safe. Peter would have said something by now. 

The only thing he had going for him was a meeting set up with some hunters to get some answers. He had to bide his time for just a few more hours.

“Did you do it?”

The voice echoed around the small bathroom, startling Derek, and the water splashed over the sides of the tub and spilled onto the floor. He turned to the source of the voice, and his eyes widened as he saw a man filling the doorway, an FBI vest strapped across his chest, gun in hand.  _ How the fuck did the FBI find him? And how tired was he, that he didn’t even hear them come in?  _ Derek felt his claws lengthen under the edges of the tub. He didn’t want to attack humans, but he’d do what he needed to do to get out of there. He was listening carefully to the rest of his apartment—mind whirring, calculating what he’d need to grab to escape, how many he’d have to take down—when he realized he only heard one heartbeat.

It was then that he finally looked up at the man’s face.

_ Stiles. _

Derek had dreams about seeing him again, his lean figure and his miles of pale skin. But nothing had prepared him for the  _ man _ that now stood in front of him. Stiles had filled out since they had last seen each other, his shoulders had broadened, his skin more bronzed than pale. His face, still beautiful, was older now, with more visible lines on his forehead and around his eyes. His waist was still tapered and his legs went on for days, and the hand wrapped around the handgun still had the longest fingers Derek had ever seen. During the tough times, when his wolf threatened to take over, Derek had closed his eyes counted the moles on Stiles’ face. It was counting those moles and trying to decode the color of those eyes that had kept Derek anchored all these years. Kept him human.

Derek’s mouth went dry at the realization that Stiles was the one holding the gun pointed right at his chest.

It was then that the facts connected in Derek’s brain. Yes, Stiles was here. But he was now, apparently, an FBI agent. How had he not known that Stiles was in the FBI? Had he really been gone that long? 

“What are you doing here?” Derek asked quietly.

“In Brazil, Derek. Did you do it?” Stiles asked again, taking the smallest step into the room.

Derek looked away. He pulled his legs into his chest and wrapped his arms around his knees. Stiles watched his movement, and then his cheeks flushed and he stepped back again, turning his eyes downward, but keeping the gun aloft.

Derek stared at his hands. “Do you think I did?”

“That’s not the question, Derek.”

He huffed. “You’re pointing a gun at me. You must think I did.”

There was silence from Stiles, and after a moment, Derek looked over to the doorway. He ached to see Stiles standing there. He had missed him so much. His wolf was fairly whining at the surface, but he willed himself to stay in the tub. Stiles was still pointing the gun at him, and even though Derek was 99 percent confident that Stiles wouldn’t shoot him, it had been a long day, he was sore and tired, and he didn’t really want to take the risk. There was also the part of him—a big part, if he was honest with himself—that was hurt that Stiles even thought he could be capable of mass murder in the first place. They’d been through so much together—they  _ knew _ each other. Stiles had stopped seeing him as a threat years ago, or at least Derek thought he had. 

But times changed. Stiles joined the FBI—maybe the training had changed him, too. Derek’s wolf whined at the thought.

“No, Stiles,” Derek said quietly. “I didn’t do it.”

Stiles lowered the gun, a slow exhale leaving his lungs. “I know. I just needed to hear it from you.” He holstered the gun on the belt at his waist.

Derek pulled his eyebrows together, a flush of anger making his ears ring. “What were you gonna do if I said yes?  _ Shoot me?” _

Stiles leaned on the doorframe and crossed his arms. “Tempting, considering you left without even saying goodbye. Two  _ years _ , Derek. Two years, and not a single word from you.”

Derek took a deep breath. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have right now. There was just...too much to say, and he was too tired (and too naked). He leaned back against the wall of the tub, stretching his legs out in front of him once again. He heard a strangled noise from the doorway.

“Whoa!” Stiles squawked, his hand flying up to his eyes. He quickly turned around. “Dude!”

“Hey,  _ you _ walked in on  _ me.” _ He smirked at the muttering under Stiles’ breath. “How’d you find me, anyway?”  
  
"Look, man, I *know* you. I just had to find the most derelict-looking building in town, and I knew you'd be living in it."

Derek rolled his eyes, but had to give respect to Stiles on that one. Apparently his habits were a puzzle that Stiles had solved a long time ago.

“Well,  _ apparently _ the FBI knows I’m here now, so I’ll have to move again. How long until your friends get here?”

Stiles turned slightly, leaning his head back against the doorframe. “They don’t know you’re here. I came alone.”

Derek’s eyebrows raised at that. Stiles shrugged. “I’m in my first day of my internship, and whose picture do they throw on the big screen as a  _ highly dangerous and possibly armed unsub _ than yours?”

Derek let his head fall back against the edge of the tub.

“What’s going on, man? Last I heard, Peter said you were in Brazil. Why are the FBI on a massive manhunt for you?”

Derek sighed. “Entire werewolf packs are being slaughtered. I checked out one in Brazil, and someone caught my trail.”

“And they automatically assumed that you were responsible for killing everyone?”  _ Jesus, _ talk about jumping to the wrong conclusion.”

Derek cocked his head and fixed a glare at Stiles. “Wonder if they looked at my record and saw that I was arrested twice under suspicion of murder?”

“Yeah…” Stiles glanced over, his cheeks flushed and a sheepish look on his face. “That was definitely my bad.”

Derek cocked his eyebrow at Stiles.  _ Ya think? _

“Look,” Stiles turned. “I’m in the FBI now. I’ll work on getting their attention somewhere else. Do you know who could be responsible for this?”

“I have a meeting with some hunters tomorrow. I’m hoping that will give me more leads.”

“About that,” Stiles interrupted. “The Feds know about it. There’s an entire SWAT team preparing to take you out.”

Derek groaned and slid downward in the water. “ _ Shit.” _

_ Well, now what? _ The hunters had some information for him, and he needed it. Otherwise, he’d have to go back to Beacon Hills. The place that continued to call to him, yet held so much hurt and heavy memories. But someone was eliminating werewolf packs, and it was just a matter of time before they went after the McCall pack—if they hadn’t already.

“Have you heard from Scott?” Derek asked.

“I left him a message yesterday. Both he and Lydia are being even more dodgy than usual, which means they’re probably hiding something.”

Derek pushed himself up a bit, looking carefully at Stiles’ profile. At the tenseness in his jaw, the tightness to his shoulders. Derek knew that the FBI was Stiles’ way out; his way to finally get some distance between himself and the supernatural world that he’d been thrown into since Peter had bitten Scott; a supernatural world that he couldn’t seem to escape from. It was like quicksand for Stiles, and once he had a foot in it, he couldn’t escape unless he literally lay down into it. Derek wished he had some answers. But even being with Derek was just dragging another foot into the quicksand.

“I, um…” Stiles stammered, “...snuck a look into your file. Do you wanna...maybe...compare notes? Maybe we can figure out something for that meeting with the hunters after all.”

Derek’s eyebrows lifted. “I don’t think the FBI will let you get involved.”

“Yeah, my dad used to think the same thing.” Stiles smirked. “Never worked out that way.”

Derek conceded that point. Stiles Stilinski did what he thought was right and important, no matter what—his personal safety be damned.

“Fine,” Derek relented. “My notes are on the table out there. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“Okay,” Stiles said. Derek closed his eyes and relaxed back into the tub, trying to catch a few more moments of peace. But, of course, Stiles interrupted it. “I gotta admit. I never took you for a bath kinda guy.”

Derek didn’t even open his eyes.  _ “Stiles.” _

“Right!” Derek heard him push himself off the doorframe and head out into the main room. A few steps out, he stopped.

“Hey Derek?” Stiles’ voice was soft. 

“Mmm?” At the quiet, Derek opened his eyes. Stiles was standing in the doorway again, a soft smile on his face.

“It’s good to see you.”

Derek raised his eyebrows. 

Stiles seemed to come to himself, and he spluttered in embarrassment. “ _ Oh my god.  _ Not  _ you _ as in…” he awkwardly gestured towards the water, “ _ you, _ but you as in  _ you… God, _ I’m going to shut up now.” His hand flew to his forehead, rubbing it back and forth in frustration before turning to leave.

Derek couldn’t help the small grin that pulled on the corner of his mouth. “Hey Stiles,” he called out. 

Stiles didn’t remove his hand from his forehead, the strained “yeah?” was firm evidence of his embarrassment.

“It’s good to see you, too,” Derek said gently.

Stiles’ shoulders visibly relaxed with his exhale, and he had a slight bounce in his step as he turned out of sight.

Derek smiled after him for a moment, then grabbed a washcloth. He focused on cleaning under his nails, scrubbing the lines of his knuckles until they were free from dirt and grass stains. He let the warm water clear away the remnants of the chase.

He tried not to think about how Stiles’ presence made his heart feel lighter than it had in a long time. He tried not to focus on how good he looked after all this time, how age had changed him. He tried not to wonder if Stiles had scars that were hidden under his clothes, or under the surface of his skin, in places that took longer, were harder to heal. He tried not to picture things like they were before. He tried not to imagine how they could be different.

He tried.

 

************


	2. Chapter 2

*************

**Two.**

_“There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.”_

_― Sylvia Plath_

 

******************

 

The silence in the bunker was oppressive. The air was thick with scents; most overwhelmingly with blood, then wolfsbane, then an underlying scent of fear, anger, and revulsion combined. The residual scents from the emotions were stale now, and barely noticeable, but they were there; like they had seeped into the walls of this place, their potency as thick as lava when they had been released, scorching everything. Now, many hours later, weakened, but still a dull bite inside his nostrils.

The sound of his footsteps bounced off of the walls and sounded like cannon fire in his ears. Or it could have been his heartbeat pounding in his chest. He wasn’t sure.

There was no one to hear him, no real need to tread softly; after all, he was walking into a tomb. But even so, he felt like he needed to be as quiet as possible, so as not to be seen, so as to be invisible...to her.

As he reached the end of the hallway, he steeled himself, tightened his shoulders and dug his claws into his palms to keep himself grounded. Chris had told him what he would probably find―had tried to discourage him from going down at all―but he _had_ to go. He had to see for himself.

He turned the corner and entered the armory.

Kate Argent had appeared to Derek in every conceivable way over the years: as a friend, a lover, a confidante, a betrayer, a murderer. The last time he saw her alive, she had shot him and fled into the woods. He had chased her, across counties and state lines, to no avail. And now, she was in front of him yet again. But this final time, as a corpse.

The scene before him was one he’d imagined many times in the years since the Argents had ingratiated themselves into his life: Gerard, mangled and bloody, barely recognizable, torn into pieces that were strewn around the room; Kate, lying lifeless in a pool of black blood.

In many dreams, he had caused the scene himself: ripping Kate’s life from her body the way she had torn his life apart piece by piece.  He wasn’t interested in causing anyone’s death―but since Kate’s arrival, his life had been surrounded with it, entrenched by it at every turn. With Kate, he would have made an exception. He would’ve welcomed her blood onto his hands like an old friend, held her death as a trophy. But here he stood, her body a cold wreck at his feet, the blackness drained from her by yellow wolfsbane, and he could only stare at her, frozen.

He waited for the finality that he always imagined he’d feel when faced with her death. He waited for the full acceptance that the nightmare was finally over. He waited for the peace that would follow, the settling of the long-entrenched need to keep running, keep diligently watching for her over his shoulder.

He waited. For how long, he couldn’t say. Long enough to sink to his knees, the scene in front of him blurred. Long enough for the faces of his dead family members to start cycling through his memory like a horrifying slideshow. He found himself whispering their names, a final atonement, his voice breaking a bit more with each remembrance that passed his lips.

He hoped they found peace. He hoped they could run through the preserves and meadows that waited on the other side of whatever this life was. He hoped they forgave his naivete, his blindness.

“Derek?”

The quiet voice brought Derek back to awareness, and he turned his head to look over his shoulder. Stiles stood in the doorway, his apprehension and concern beginning to cut through the coppery tang of blood, the sickly sweet smell of wolfsbane.

Derek looked back to the body in front of him, and he was startled to find his hands slick with black. His eyes shifted to the ground next to Kate’s body, to the words he had been unknowingly writing in the blood with his fingers.  

_Stephen._

_Laura._

_Frederick._

_Talia._

He had scrawled their names through the evidence of Kate’s death, a written prayer for their absolution as unconscious as breathing. But now, the contrast of Kate’s blood against his skin made him frantic. He began rubbing his hands together, trying to scrape the black away with his fingertips, his claws extending and scraping along his skin, rubbing it raw and threatening to break it open. Maybe he deserved that, his own blood to be spilled alongside hers...

It was in the beginning of the panic swirling through his consciousness that he felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder, immediately stilling him. He took a deep breath, calming as Stiles’ proximity caused his human scent to flood his senses, covering everything else. Derek remembered another time years ago, when Stiles’ hand had been on his shoulder, comforting him over Boyd’s lifeless body. Now, he was there again, his hand a reminder of the support that had been there for years.

His anchor.

“I―” The sound scratched out of Derek’s throat, tightness strangling the words. The gentle pressure on his shoulder increased, long fingers pressing in rhythm, doing what they could to lay comfort into his skin. “I’m sorry, I―”

He felt Stiles tighten his hold, sensed him kneeling close. Derek still couldn’t tear his eyes away from Kate’s body, but Stiles put both hands on Derek’s shoulders, holding him. Derek could feel his eyes on him, and he eventually tore his eyes away, turning his eyes to Stiles’ chest. Stiles’ scent of worry was slowly replaced by something studier, something more concrete.

“Don’t,” Stiles said firmly. Derek lifted his eyes to Stiles’ face. He searched the amber eyes, finding only resolve within them. “ _Don’t be sorry._ She took enough from you. But she doesn’t deserve anything else but to be completely forgotten from now on.”

Derek looked back at the body, remembering rituals and incantations, things to insure she wouldn’t return. He started to shrug Stiles away, to move toward the bodies. “I need to—”

 _“―No_ ,” Stiles’ hands gripped onto Derek’s shoulders, holding him in place. “ _You_ _don’t_. Deaton’ll take care of them―burn the bodies, salt the graves, whatever it is that he does so they never return. He’s already on his way.”

Derek blew out a shaky exhale.

“She’s gone,” Stiles assured him, nodding when their eyes met. “And she doesn’t deserve the kindness of you taking care of her body. Let’s just...get out of here.”

Derek considered ignoring Stiles’ suggestion. He could do what needed to be done: collect the bodies, bury them, burn them, say the rituals. Offer penance and contemplate the loss of yet another person from his past. But as he turned toward Stiles, standing in the doorway of the bunker, a look of hopeful expectation on his face, Derek realized: Stiles was right. He didn’t owe Kate anything. She didn’t deserve his time; she deserved to be forgotten.

He looked at the names written in blood, barely visible now. Laura’s face lingered in his mind, the smirk that she’d give him when he was in trouble, the look of consternation on her face when he’d use her hairbrush. He felt the hint of a smile breaking through the surface of the pain. He needed more of those memories. More of the laughter and the teasing, less smoke and pain. _You’ll never be forgotten,_ he committed to her.

He followed Stiles out of the armory and back down the hallway, each step easing the heavy weight around his heart. When they were back into the night air, Derek felt like he could fully breathe again―maybe for the first time in a long time. There wouldn’t be any more looking over his shoulder, waiting for her to show up; she was gone.

And he was free.

He felt Stiles’ eyes upon him, and when he returned the look, he noticed Stiles’ barely-there smile.

“You look lighter already,” he said softly.

 _Could it really be that easy?_ The knowledge that she was dead―that she was gone from his life forever―could it really change things that quickly? He couldn’t help the feeling of hope that yes, maybe it could.

They walked side-by-side, Derek feeling lighter and more free with each step.

“So, you’ll be off the FBI Most Wanted list.” Stiles teased, nudging Derek’s shoulder with his own. “Helpful that the old dirtbag wanted glory more than covering his ass. INTERPOL will connect him to the international murders, too.”

“And the woman?” Derek asked.

“Scott said her name’s Monroe. I’ll send her info to my Senior Special Agent. She doesn’t seem like the brightest―she’ll be easier to catch than _you.”_ He smirked, and Derek couldn’t help but smile along with him.

“So,” Stiles continued as they walked. “We’re all going to my house to eat pizza, get drunk, and celebrate being alive.”

“But Monroe—”

“― _No._ You don’t get to try to be all responsible and big papa bear-y on me. Monroe’s gone, but her network’s blown to shit with Gerard dead. She can wait.” He put his hand on Derek’s shoulder, a shit-eating grin on his face. “You’re coming over, and you’re getting shitfaced drunk with me.”

Derek huffed a laugh. “What?”

“Look,” Stiles pointed at the armory behind them. “I realize that that motherfucking piece of work down there took the most formative, irresponsible drinking years of your life and threw them down the proverbial toilet.” He put his hand over his heart in a mocking salute. “I consider it my civic duty to help you reclaim some of your lost youth.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I can’t get drunk.”

“The fact that you didn’t even consider wolfsbane beer means that you are _woefully_ beneath the inebriation standards I’ve come to expect in our pack. I have it, and you’re going to drink it. And _I’m_ going to need a lot of vodka to wipe the memory of slamming into that SWAT guy with my Jeep, and even _more_ to handle the sight of Scott and Malia making out. The rest of the pack’s coming, too. Don’t try to get out of it.”

Derek shrugged. Six years ago, he’d have argued with Stiles. Now, he knew better. Derek was a werewolf, but Stiles was a bulldog. They got in the Jeep and Stiles pulled onto the dirt road toward town.

“Where are you planning on staying?” Stiles asked, a few minutes into the drive.

Derek glanced into the back seat where his bags had been stashed. “I don’t know. Thought I’d take my stuff and see how the loft looks.”

“Dude, I can’t let you do that! That place has too many memories. Come stay at my dad’s. Your stuff’s still in my car. We’ve got room.”

The road smoothed, the drive through the town passing in companionable silence. They’d just spent two tension-filled days on the road, tearing from Maryland to Beacon Hills as fast as the rental car could take them, and in comparison, this drive was practically crawling ( _not_ a commentary on the Jeep’s performance, handicapped as it was). Derek could hear Stiles’ phone buzzing off and on in his pocket, but he ignored it.

They pulled into the Stilinski driveway, and after Stiles killed the engine, he sat with his hands on the top of the wheel, gently drumming, his eyes cast upward at the house. All the lights were off―everyone else yet to arrive―and it looked almost eerie in the night sky.

“I can’t believe I’m back here so soon.” Stiles broke the silence, then glanced down to the dashboard. “I don’t know. I guess I just...I thought...maybe once I left, I’d be able to stay gone.”

Derek looked over at Stiles, who was staring at the dashboard like he hoped it held the answers. He felt his own heart squeeze.

“You will,” Derek assured him. “You have the FBI waiting for you.”

“Yeah...” Stiles took a deep breath.

It wasn’t like Stiles’ feelings were unique. Derek himself had spent almost the entirety of the last two years living in Brazil, trying every day to ignore the pull that he felt to this place, the obligation to return and protect it. It’s like it was written into the very marrow of his bones, and ignoring it only made the urge greater, the pull stronger. Stiles hadn’t had the opportunity to get away from it before. He was mired in it, his entire life surrounded by danger in this place.

But―he wanted _more_ for Stiles. Stiles wasn’t held to this place by tradition, his blood wasn’t spilled out all over this land so that the trees and the buildings were laced with it. He had the opportunity to get out, to make a difference...to be _safe._ It was obvious to anyone who looked at him how much he wanted―needed―that. The supernatural world was difficult enough for those with claws and fangs.

But for a human? There was a reason that the supernatural world had been kept secret for so long. Humans didn’t tend to survive.

Stiles nearly hadn’t.

He’d already been attacked, ambushed, betrayed, and possessed. It was a miracle to Derek how he’d managed to stay alive this long. It wasn’t to say he had come through unscathed. He was certainly very different now than when he had stumbled onto the Hale land, and Derek ached with a sense of nostalgia at the loss of the eager, skinny, flailing, menace to society that Stiles had been. That boy was gone, forever altered by the supernatural world.

Derek now wanted the man that remained to have a chance at _something_ resembling normalcy.

“So,” Stiles broke the silence. “Ready to go party?”

Derek raised his eyebrows, and Stiles laughed. “Yeah, me neither. But the beer and food part sound amazing, so I’ll put up with the rest. Come on in.”

He gathered his bags from the backseat, and followed Stiles up the walkway. It felt weird entering the Stilinski front door―he tried to remember whether he’d actually walked through it before.

Stiles led him upstairs, flipping lights on as they went. The house looked mostly the same since Derek had been there last, Stiles’ scent that used to permeate every surface more stale now.

‘The extra bedroom is over there,” Stiles said, pointing to the right at the top of the stairs. “Here’s the bathroom.” Stiles moved to the hall closet, pulled out a towel and washcloth. He went to hand them to Derek, but noticed the dried blood coating his fingers and pulled them back to put them on the counter instead. “I’d wash your hands first. I know you’re a bath guy, so take your time. Seriously. Make yourself comfortable in the spare room. I’ll go order the pizza and get everything together.”

Derek nodded, and Stiles disappeared back down the stairs.

He closed the door and dropped his bag in front of it, turning to the sink and beginning to wash his hands. The dried blackness scrubbed off with some effort. He watched Kate’s blood disappear down the drain, refused to allow himself to think too much about it. He felt settled when he began to see his clean skin emerge from beneath the mess. He didn’t fail to notice the parallel between Kate’s blood washing away just like her presence in his life, leaving clarity and cleanliness behind.

He gazed at the bathtub, thinking for a moment to just take a quick shower. But the thought of a deep soak was too enticing. He adjusted the water temperature, noticed with sadness the lack of decent salts or soaps (he made a mental note to get Stiles on board with the luxury of what a bath could be―it would really help him settle). He undressed as the tub filled, noticing the stains on his clothes. He decided to throw them away―no sense spending any more time on the effects of being near Kate’s toxicity.

The water felt amazing, as he allowed the heat to sink into the soles of his feet, his calves, the muscles on his forearms. The tub was shorter than the old clawfoot tub, and he had to scrunch a bit to fit, but it would work fine for the time being.

As he laid back, he tried not to think too much about how Stiles had been there for him. Again. It wasn’t anything new. In some of the worst times of his life, Stiles had been there. Sometimes supporting him with a word or a comforting hand, sometimes by throwing his allegiance with the wolves or the banshees or the other supernatural creatures, instead of with the humans that threatened them.

Stiles was always there.

He could hear it clearly when people started arriving downstairs. First was the Sheriff, the reunion quiet, only punctuated by murmurs and the occasional sniffle (Derek couldn’t tell if those were from Stiles or his dad). Derek smiled when he heard the Sheriff’s warm gruff voice chastising his son for coming home and putting himself in danger. The rest of the pack filtered in over the next several minutes. Chris and Melissa. Peter, though he didn’t stay long, Derek would call him later. Scott and Malia, the kid Mason and his boyfriend. Jackson and Ethan. Lydia came in last, holding what was most likely the beer, if the cheer that rang out when she came in the door was any indication. He relaxed when he felt all of them in the house. It was hard to believe he’d lived for so long without them. Now, here, their voices filtering up the steps, it felt right again. Scott and Malia mumbling whispered promises in each other’s ears, Lydia talking intently with Jackson and Ethan. He couldn’t hear Stiles’ voice, but he heard the sure, strong heartbeat and knew he was there, in his home with his pack surrounding him.

Derek sunk into the water, the warmth lapping at his chin and his ears, feeling the tension leaking out of his muscles. He could relax until the pizza got there.

He was okay. He could take care of the pack here, defend the territory that his family had held for generations. He could take care of Beacon Hills and the people in it, defend them from threats, supernatural or otherwise. He could figure out the balance with Scott and the rest of the pack. He’d call Isaac.

Then―Stiles could leave. Derek didn’t want to think about it. But once Beacon Hills―once the Sheriff―was safe, then Stiles would be able to leave and not feel the need to come back at the first sign of danger. He’d leave with Lydia, start a real life.

It was Hale land. He’d write the names of his family in the earth until the borders were as strong and powerful as they were before. He’d add the names of his pack, until they were as powerful as they were destined to be. Then Beacon Hills and everyone he loved would be safe. Safe to go out and make their ways in the world.

It’s what he was born to do.

 

**************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you in advance for your comments. They are greatly appreciated (and highly motivating)!!
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter.](http://www.twitter.com/im2old4thisotp)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: self-harm (see end note)

************

**Three.**

_“I wanted a bath, even if it were dust. A strigil to scrape the skin that I couldn’t crawl out of.”  
_ _― Debora Greger_

 

****************

 

It was just another day. Nothing special. A meeting with the Willis clan to the south, then weekly pack dinner at the McCalls. Derek had gone home, planning on taking a bath and going to bed. Nothing extraordinary whatsoever.

Derek didn’t even see it coming.

The knock on the loft door surprised him, even more when he realized Stiles was on the other side. It was late.

“Hey Derek,” Stiles said. “I...uh…can I come in?”

Derek gestured him inside, and Stiles barely managed a nod as he passed, smelling like anxiety and worry. Derek’s wolf immediately rose his hackles, sensing danger.

“Great meeting tonight,” Stiles began, his voice much lighter than his scent indicated. “It’s really going well with the Willis clan, huh?”

“Seems that way,” Derek agreed, taking his cue from Stiles. He settled his wolf down. “They’re willing to concede part of their territory in exchange for protection on their northern border.”

Stiles nodded. “That’s great. Did, uh, the alpha say anything weird or strange to you?”

Derek buckled his eyebrows. “Umm...not that I recall?”

“You know, so you could say, ‘Whatcha talkin’ about, Willis?’” He chuckled to himself, the dumb finger guns making an unfortunate appearance.

Derek couldn’t contain his eye roll at the dumb joke. “Stiles, it was a potentially volatile meeting, I don’t think it would have helped negotiations to throw lines from _Webster_ at them.”

Stiles shook his head. “I don’t know, man. Seems like a wasted opportunity to me.” He walked over to the small kitchen area, plopping down on a barstool. Derek watched him carefully, scenting the air and sensing the strong emotions underneath his words, the tension and the sour notes he was giving off, tickling his own senses. Stiles picked up a stray napkin from the counter, fiddling with the corners.

“I talked about this with the pack at dinner,” Derek said. He eyed Stiles, who was firmly not making eye contact. Derek added softly,  “Why are you _really_ here so late?”

“Late?” Stiles asked. “It’s not late, it’s only—” He glanced over at the clock on the microwave and seemed surprised by what he saw there. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, dude. I’ll um...I’ll just come back another time.”

He tossed the napkin back onto the counter in front of him, and jumped off the barstool as quickly as he had sat, brushing past Derek. He was running away. And while Derek couldn’t force it out of him, he also knew that he’d end up with a phone call at 4am from an even more agitated Stiles than he was seeing now. Derek turned and stepped quickly to catch up with him, just catching his arm before he got to the door. Stiles tensed, and Derek dropped his hand.

“ _Stiles.”_ He said softly. “What is it?”

Stiles was facing the door, and Derek thought for a moment that perhaps he’d keep walking out the door. But then he exhaled, his head dropped to his chest, and he slowly turned around. “I just wanted you to be the first to know,” he said to the ground, his eyes downcast. “I’m going back to finish my undergrad.”

Derek felt the lump forming in his throat, and he swallowed it down hard. “That’s great, Stiles. You’ve been working toward that for months.”

Stiles looked up into Derek’s eyes, conveying more. “Yeah, but I’m...uh...moving in with Lydia, too. I’ll be in Boston at the end of the month.”

The apartment was silent as Stiles let the words hang in the space between them. The only sound from a siren way in the distance outside.

Derek should have seen it coming.

It was the plan. He wanted Stiles to _go_ , to get out of Beacon Hills and make his own way. Go somewhere and be safe and free of all this supernatural nonsense that he didn’t need to be wrapped up in anymore. He’d always be on the fringes of it―his best friend was a werewolf, his girlfriend was a banshee, his ex was a werecoyote, his hometown had a fucking nemeton―but that didn’t mean he had to drown in it. Derek wanted him to get out.

For almost 10 months, he’d been reminding himself of the aforementioned Plan on a daily basis. It was helpful for him to have a focus, otherwise the overwhelming nature of everything that had happened would become too much and he’d feel like running again. Stay in Beacon Hills. Help establish balance within the McCall/Hale pack. Create treaties with neighboring packs and strengthen the werewolf population. Seek out and protect Omegas created by Gerard and Monroe’s fanaticism. Rebuild his family home. Bring balance to the Nemeton.

So many of those things were going along at a much better success rate than had ever happened in Derek’s life, if he were honest with himself. True to their hopes, Tamora Monroe had been caught fairly quickly after Gerard’s death, found trying to negotiate new leadership in Arizona. Scott and Malia went out a lot on “recruitment runs,” which usually meant finding vulnerable omegas before the hunters did, and integrating them into a local pack for safety. Derek began building a home on the old Hale property, not in the old spot (too many memories), but closeby. He found digging with his hands into the soil that belonged to his family to be more therapeutic than running had ever been. Derek found his wolf slowly connecting with the land again, which, in turn, brought him closer in connection to the Nemeton. His wolf related to the ancient spirit better than he did, and he spent long hours on the full moons with his paws nestled in the roots.

But.

Since Stiles’ return, Derek had wrestled with the dichotomy of his own desires. Because, deep down inside, in the parts that he rarely allowed himself to dive into that freely, now he also wanted Stiles to _stay_. It, admittedly, was not part of the plan. It was exactly opposite of The Plan.

Stiles had stayed in Beacon Hills after the Anuk-Ite. Even though Derek knew why he did, it had still infuriated him. The _entire_ drive back to Beacon Hills, Stiles had talked about the FBI, how excited he was to be learning, getting more skills. But the first sign of trouble, and he’d gone right back into the fight, his own safety be damned. Derek was frustrated, because Beacon Hills _had_ people for that― _supernatural_ people who could do it, not humans who were mostly defenseless save for sarcasm and a healthy helping of misplaced bravado. He’d wanted Stiles to leave with Lydia instead of staying in Beacon Hills, continuously under threat from whatever monster of the week decided to show up. There were omega werewolves all over the state that needed protection, and Scott was determined to do it, no matter the toll it took on his family or friends. Stiles wasn’t supposed to stay in Beacon Hills. He was supposed to be _gone_. Safe. Away, but safe.

As furious as Derek was about the whole thing, he couldn’t say anything. Mostly because no matter what, Derek couldn’t change Stiles’ mind. He was as stubborn as they came, and once he made up his mind, it took a lot to change it. Stiles still believed Theo was a piece of shit, even though he'd had some kind of “redemption arc” and he and Liam seemed to have something going on. Stiles would never forgive him, though, and there was no amount of pack dinners that would change that (Derek sided with Stiles on this one. Theo liked to flex his muscles but he was about as trustworthy as a Nigerian prince email).

But he also couldn’t say anything because...well, Stiles wasn’t _his._ When Stiles decided to stay, Derek couldn’t do a damn thing about it. So instead of fighting it, he found himself actually _helping_ Stiles. Driving him to register for community college when the Jeep broke down again. Becoming his workout partner in advance preparation for his eventual FBI Academy training. Establishing weekly pack dinners at the Sheriff’s house to keep him in the supernatural loop as well as building rapport amongst the pack.

It was torture. Because no matter what happened, he understood with perfect clarity: Stiles belonged to Lydia now. They’d had some epic reunion, with rift-breaking and admission of feelings. Derek didn’t know much about it―he never asked, and Stiles never shared. He knew that Stiles loved her for a long time, and now, apparently, she returned the feelings. After the Anuk-ite, she’d gone ahead to Boston, and they kept in touch as much as they could with a cross-country relationship. It wasn’t his place to say, but Derek always felt like there was a distance to Lydia’s feelings for Stiles. That she loved him, but she didn’t know what to do with it.

Apparently not, since they were moving in together.

“Derek?” Stiles asked, interrupting his thoughts. Derek shook himself out of his daze and plastered a smile on his face that he hoped appeared genuine.

“That’s great, Stiles. I’m so happy for you.” Derek’s voice sounded as rough as sandpaper in his own ears.

“I haven’t told anyone else yet. Dad’s next, but...I just want to enjoy these last few weeks, y’know? Without everyone acting like every moment is some big farewell. I just want things to stay the same.”

Derek couldn’t look at him anymore. He felt like there was a fine-tipped blade that had pierced just between his ribcage, and was slowly digging in, a dull ache that Derek knew would only get more and more intense. He looked just past Stiles’ face, to the doorway, making him a fuzzy outline. Derek focused on the bolt patterns on the door, the peeling of the paint, anything to give him something else to look at, because looking at Stiles only made the dull ache sharper and more focused.

“Why’d you tell me?” he gruffed.

Stiles’ hand trailed to the back of his neck, scrubbing his skin. “Scott’ll get all emotional about it and forget to focus on school and the omegas, Liam’ll be happy I’m not handing down life lessons to him, valuable as they are. Isaac will be happy I’m not making fun of his scarves. And I dunno, I…”

Stiles’ voice trailed off, and Derek reluctantly tore his eyes from the door to look at Stiles. He was struck by the vulnerability he saw in his eyes, the worrying of his teeth on his lower lip. Then Stiles blinked rapidly, shrugged, and cleared his throat. “I figured you’d need time to find another handyman to work on your house. Consider this my two weeks’ notice.”

Typical Stiles. A joke. It was fine. They never actually said what they really wanted to say to each other. So Derek rolled his eyes and played along.  “I’ll try to find someone with more hammer-on-nail accuracy.”

Derek could sense Stiles’ smirk. “Probably won’t be hard.”

Stiles nodded, “Well, it’s late, so uh...I’m gonna go. Goodnight, Derek.”

Derek felt rooted to the ground, his mouth sealed shut. Stiles was almost out the door before he managed a weak, “Goodnight, Stiles,” in response. Stiles gave him a brief nod and disappeared around the corner, and Derek could do nothing but brace his hand on the door and try to keep his claws from tearing into the metal underneath his palm.

It had been three weeks since that night. Three weeks with no further word from Stiles, no indication that he had told anyone else about his leaving Beacon Hills. The sharp ache that had started to form that night had only grown in intensity until now, when Derek felt like his skin was aflame, a million fire ants crawling around just under the surface. He kept wrapping his arms around his chest, trying to contain the feeling, to press it into submission. His heart would erupt into a fierce, erratic beat, and sweat pooled on his temples, his chest, his lower back.

He’d felt like this since Stiles had said he was leaving. Each day, the intensity had increased just a bit more, until today, when it felt like knives digging in under his fingernails. He hadn’t had this tenuous of a hold on his control since puberty. He found himself counting his fingers on a regular basis, his worry strengthening each time he realized he wasn’t dreaming―that what he was feeling was _real._

He’d looked up at the last pack meeting and found Deaton looking at him, the piercing gaze setting his teeth on edge. Isaac started scenting him more, an attempt to soothe Derek’s shift in mood. Scott had asked him once what was bothering him, but to his credit he hadn’t asked again after Derek couldn’t contain his growl in response.

He tried throwing himself into other things to distract himself. He went on a five-day scouting trip with Scott (which was a terrible idea―his wolf whined the entire time he was out of Beacon Hills, and Scott was quickly confused and annoyed by Derek’s bad mood). He worked through the night with Deaton on reinforcing the pack lines, but avoiding Deaton’s pointed looks and thinly veiled observances only made Derek bail out early and run until his legs almost gave out. He continued to train with Malia and Isaac―working on control with Malia, confidence with Isaac―but it seemed the trust they had built over the last few months since Isaac’s return took a bit of a backslide when “Alpha Derek’s short fuse” (Isaac’s words) returned with a vengeance. Derek wrote to surrounding packs, trying to bridge the communication between them as his mother had done, but it was painfully slow, and attempting to be diplomatic right now was out of the question.

He heard the whispers from the rest of the pack, the wonderings about what was wrong, what was happening to him. No one knew, and Derek wouldn’t tell them.

They’d all know soon enough.

Stiles eventually told everyone at his last pack dinner, the night before he was going to leave.

“I’m moving to Boston to be with Lydia.”

The pack reacted about like Stiles had expected: surprise, sadness, a little anger at not being told sooner, but mostly excitement. Scott draped himself over Stiles’ shoulder and didn’t leave his side the rest of the night. They immediately ordered more pizza, and Malia ran out to get some beer, a hastily-thrown together gathering with terrible party music, and hopefully some dancing. They broke open the beer, laughed and told stories and saluted Stiles’ rapid departure for his educational endeavors.

Derek found himself trying to join in. He laughed at the appropriate times, passed out pizza to the progressively drunk crew, but he drank his own beer with a painful slowness, peeling at the corner of the label with his fingernail. He tried to join in with a story or two, but his words kept getting caught in his throat. He found himself drifting to the sides, trying to avoid eye contact, trying to make himself disappear. The pack was going to party late into the night, and he found himself standing in the kitchen, mindlessly throwing away trash, trying to figure out how to leave.

“I’m really going to miss him,” he heard the gruff quiet voice say from the doorway. Derek turned slowly to see John Stilinski heading into the kitchen, his hands full of empty beer bottles.

“He’s been a giant pain in my ass sometimes, gettin’ into trouble, trespassing on private property.” He looked pointedly at Derek then, a small smile on his lips. “But he’s been a life-saver for me. Probably would’ve lost myself after Claudia. Almost did. But he kept me grounded.”

John put the bottles in the recycle bin and came back to stand next to Derek. “Those kids out there?” He nodded toward the family room. “They’ve never really been apart before. They’re gonna have a tough time, missing him. Stiles kinda gets under your skin.”

Derek couldn’t disagree with that.

“I just want you to know...you’re welcome here anytime, son.” John put a gentle hand on Derek’s shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze.

Derek nodded at him, afraid of what he would say, if he tried to say anything at all.

“I’ve got this here,” John gestured to the last of the clean up.

The crawling under Derek’s skin crescendoed until it was no longer an antsiness, but a firm need. He needed to run, to split his skin and bones and take on his true form, sprinting with the crunch of pine needles under the pads of his paws, the smell of bark and moss in his nose. It was a pull he rarely felt apart from the full moon, yet there it was, residing under his skin like a living entity, a manifestation of the frustration he felt at his inability to do anything about...him.

Derek nodded at John, and with a final glance into the family room―Stiles was in the middle of a crazy story, his arms gesturing wildly and Scott red-faced and laughing next to him―he snuck out the back door and started to _run._

He felt the change ripple through him. The pads of his paws slipping out of shoes and into the dewy grass of the evening. He grimaced for a moment at the torn clothes he left behind, but it quickly disappeared with the feel of the cool night across his fur, the darkness made clear as day with his wolf eyes.

He had no destination in mind, he just needed to run until the fire under his skin dampened. He tried to let his wolf take over completely, but his mind was distracted. He ran until his paws were cut by jagged rocks, tufts of hair ripped out by brambles and branches of the forest. He welcomed the pain, welcomed the distraction of his thoughts from where they wanted to rest.

_Skinny, defenseless, infuriating, never-leaves-well-enough alone Stiles._

His muscles ached and his tongue lolled from his heavy breathing. He needed to get back to his loft before he was too tired to get back.

_Passionate, persistent, loyal, fierce Stiles._

He dodged around city blocks, avoiding any humans he might see. Since Monroe, the city was aware of werewolves now, but it didn’t mean it necessarily kept him safe from some gun-toting, trigger-happy townsperson with an imagined score to settle. He dragged his paws up the steps of his building, into the safety of the loft.

_Expressive, intelligent, open-minded Stiles._

He finally allowed himself to shift back to being human, the cuts and abrasions he had endured as a wolf tearing into his skin. The fire he had felt under his skin had faded with his exhaustion, but it still lingered. Combined with the burgeoning lump in his throat, it was overwhelming him, not allowing him to think clearly, to rationalize Stiles’ departure. Stiles’ scent that permeated his apartment didn’t help either. His wolf, exhausted but alert, whined in his throat, scratched his insides to be let out again, to return to the Stilinski’s home, to Stiles.

Instead, Derek stumbled into his bathroom, wincing at the cuts on his feet struggling to heal. He slammed the door behind him and turned on the water in the bathtub, twisting the knob as hot as it could go. He leaned against the side of the tub and took deep breaths as the basin filled with scalding water and the tendrils of steam wafted into the air. He stuck his hand in the water, hissing at the contact, his skin pinking up immediately. He jerked his hand back out, relieved at how the fire subsided for a moment, but then it returned again, and he sighed. He’d need more. Derek rifled under the sink for a small vial and poured a sprinkle of the purple powder directly into the stream. After a moment, the steam from the rising water took on a lavender hue, and Derek’s nose began to twitch in pain.

Derek had tried to tamper them down, the feelings for Stiles that he thought he’d imagined before he moved to Brazil. He tried. Stiles was his _friend_ , his _anchor_ . But nothing about their interactions over the last ten months had helped to assuage the decidedly un- _friend_ -like feelings that Derek felt. It seemed that no matter what was going on, Derek found himself protecting Stiles, helping Stiles, developing deeper feelings for Stiles.

Derek lowered himself into the water, hissing and groaning as the scalding heat branded his skin immediately. The wolfsbane powder kept him from healing. He just needed the fire to be silenced so he could _think._ He sank into the poison inch-by-inch, lower and lower, moaning against the pain until he was seated fully, the scalding redness dampening the wolf’s hold, forcing it from the surface of his skin. He heard his whimpers echoing against the walls of the room.

Stiles was leaving. It shouldn’t be this big of a deal. He’d lost pack members before, felt their deaths extinguish the pack bonds between them. He’d been separated from pack members―Cora, Jackson, Isaac―all leaving to make their own journeys, their own ways. Those losses had hurt, had felt like deep scrapes on his skin. But nothing had felt like this. Stiles leaving was like an ember branding into the very fibers of his being that would never heal.

What made Stiles so different? Why couldn’t Derek get him out from under his skin? Why couldn’t the wolf let him go?

As his skin tingled against the heated water, struggling to heal, he realized it wasn’t one thing about Stiles. It was in a thousand different things. The way that Stiles helped Derek clear brush and rubble from his new homestead in between writing papers. The way Stiles irritated him by contradicting nearly everything that he said with that twinkle in his eyes and the smirk on his lips. The way Stiles threw his head back and howled with joy when he finally managed to knock Derek on his ass for the first time in their sparring. The way Derek’s wolf settled whenever Stiles was near; at pack meetings or studying in the loft, with Stiles saying that “it actually helps me focus on the beauty inside my Humanities text, because anything’s better than looking around this hellhole.”

The bond with his pack had been different because _Stiles_ was different. Stiles was _everything_. He hid a wanted Derek from his own father the sheriff. He protected Derek from the hunters, sided with the werewolves even when one had attacked his best friend. Stiles held Derek up in a pool for hours, keeping him safe from the kanima. Stiles helped him look for his pack when they’d gone missing. Stiles stood by him even after Derek took Boyd’s life. Stiles had pulled him away from Jennifer. Stiles protected him from Kate, over and over again.

His wolf wouldn’t let Stiles go because it knew that Stiles was really the only person who protected him, never doubted him, never betrayed him, never left him. The wolf wouldn’t let him go even if it were for Stiles’ own good―because _it saw Stiles as a wolf._ Wolves by nature were possessive, fiercely and furiously protective of their pack. They saw what was best for the pack and held onto it. Just like Stiles.

His wolf had chosen Stiles. And Derek had to break the hold, or he would be broken by it. Because Stiles _had_ to leave. _Had to._ His own wolf be damned.

A loud dampened pounding on metal jerked Derek from his thoughts. He strained his ears against the pain, his heart pounding harder when he realized that Stiles was at his door, pounding away and yelling.

_“Derek! Open up, you moron!”_

Derek heard him ripping the loft door open, stomping over to the bathroom door. Derek sank further into the water, hissing as the pain reached under his chin to his earlobes.

Stiles pounded on the door, his voice harsh as he yelled. “Derek, I know you’re in there! You think you can just go, leaving your shoes in my backyard, and hide not say goodbye to me? Think you can just walk away like you did three years ago, without a word? Well, I’m here to tell you, buddy, it ain’t happening!”

The pounding continued. “Open up, you fucker! I’m leaving, I’m saying goodbye to all my friends, and that includes _you,_ you self-flagellating asshole!”

He pounded on the door a few more times, and then it suddenly stopped and he heard a faint _“Ow! Shit!”_

Stiles was muttering to himself, “Break my fucking hand...on your fucking bathroom door...for fuck’s sake…”

Derek held himself in the tub. His wolf was howling to check on Stiles, make sure he was okay, take his pain, but Derek sunk his claws into his own legs to hold himself still, only moving to thump his head back against the rim of the tub with pain.

“Derek? Look,” Stiles said, his voice softer now. Derek heard him taking calming breaths, then the gentle noise of Stiles leaning against the door. “I know it’s been hard since I told you I was leaving. But I really appreciate you not telling anyone. I didn’t intend to wait so long, it’s just...everything was going so smoothly, I didn’t want to fuck everything up.”

“Will you open the door please?” he continued softly. Derek held himself perfectly still, his claws still underneath the skin, the wolfsbane making the punctures throb. He tried not to breathe deeply, Stiles’ scent drifting under the door and making his head fuzzy.

“Okay, if you won’t open the door, then just listen. I’ll probably be calling every other day, bugging the shit out of you guys wondering what’s going on. I need to get out of here, Derek. I need to try to make it work with Lydia, and I need to try to make something of myself.”

Derek heard a loud exhale, what sounded like Stiles’ head thumping against the door. His heart started pounding a little faster.

“But I don’t want to go. I want to stay. Here.”

Derek’s wolf started whining. It was held down into submission by the wolfsbane and Derek’s will, but at Stiles’ words, it was struggling to escape the hold. Derek strained against it, biting down on his bottom lip with his fangs descended, piercing into the skin.

He just barely heard Stiles fingers against the wood grain on the door, his fingertips tracing patterns against it. His voice, barely above a whisper.

“Derek, can you give me a reason to stay?”

He wanted to yell out a million reasons at once. He wanted to dive out of the tub, crawl across the floor and lay himself at Stiles’ feet.

He wanted.

But he couldn’t.

Because of Stiles, he _wouldn’t._

Instead, he took the deepest breath he could manage and slid down to immerse himself completely in the tub. The wolf howled, thrashing violently inside against his ribs before finally settling still. Derek’s heart pounded wildly in his chest, and the voice inside his head screamed in agony.

He waited until he heard the hand slide away from the door, until he heard the muted goodbye. He waited until the loft door slammed behind him, the erratic heartbeat and the sneakers against the steps fading into silence. He waited until he felt the will of his wolf break down.

He waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to take this opportunity to assure you that I am a sucker for a happy ending. This story is no exception.
> 
> TW: Derek submerses himself in a wolfsbane-laced bath to subdue his wolf and keep himself from telling Stiles to stay. This causes him quite a bit of pain.
> 
> Thank you in advance for your comments. They are my writing fuel.
> 
> Find me on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/im2old4thisotp) if you wanna chat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience for this chapter. Life life life life.
> 
> Also, this chapter was emotional for me to write, and it wouldn't have gotten done at all if it weren't for my Pantsie. So thank you, my love.
> 
> On we go...

*****************

**Four.**

_ “Some days, I feel everything at once. Some days, I feel nothing at all. I don’t know what’s worse: drowning beneath the waves or dying from the thirst.”  
_ _ -vanlallawm _

 

****************

 

“You didn’t tell me when I came to visit I’d have to paint my own room.” Cora rolled the light gray paint over the last section of the wall. 

“If I told you, would you have come?” Derek asked from the doorway, tightening the last of the screws on the new door handle. 

“Hell no, big brother!” Cora admitted. “I don’t  _ do _ manual labor.”

“Which is why I didn’t tell you.” Derek smirked, The guest room was the last to be finished in the house that Derek had built from the ground up. It was a modestly-sized home, just outside the border of the Preserve, and within walking distance of where the old house had stood. He’d thought for a little while about staying in the loft, but his wolf felt the pull of the Preserve and the Nemeton too strongly. Ultimately there were too many ugly memories etched into the walls of the loft to keep it. Derek was determined to do things that kept him in a healthy mindset, and staying at the loft wasn’t an option if he wanted to do that. Plus Stiles had made fun of the place every chance he could. Thankfully, when he sold it to a developer for cash, he hadn’t needed to disclose the deaths that had occurred inside it.

He tightened the last screw, and then twisted the door handle a few times to test it out. Satisfied, he stepped back a few paces. “Door’s done, you now have your precious privacy.”

Cora rolled the last of the second coat onto the wall, then turned to face Derek. “Yeah, but it smells like fucking paint fumes in here, so I’m on the couch for two more days, aren’t I?”

Derek shrugged. “I told you, you can have my bed.”

“And smell the funky spunk of the eternally lonely and single?” Cora scoffed and pointed at him. “No thank you. I’ll take the couch.”

“You’re assuming there’s no spunk there, either.” He had to bite back the laugh at Cora’s disgusted face.

“Ugh! Don’t tell me you’ve jerked it all over this house!”

Derek walked over to her and took the paint roller out of her hands. “I’m the only one here, who’s to stop me?”

“Derek, you’re depressing me. You’re not sitting alone in this house every weekend watching  _ Love and Basketball _ , are you?”

“I’ve been building a house, Cora. Do you think I’ve had time to watch romance movies?”

“Don’t give me that. You basically finished the house six months ago. Have you gone out at all since then?”

Derek couldn’t think of anything off-hand, but he didn’t want to give Cora the impression that he didn’t, so he answered nonchalantly, “I go out.”

“Yeah, with Scott and Malia, who are frankly disgusting; Isaac, who’s almost never here and needs to get laid almost as badly as you do; and Liam and Theo, who I want to gut with my teeth. When’s the last time you went out to meet someone for  _ you?” _

Derek had to think about it. He’d taken the Sheriff to the airport a few times, he’d been to the McCall’s house for pack meetings. He’d gone to a bar a few times, but usually earlier in the evening, so the only people there were old, grizzled guys who were practically melded to their barstools, or women who looked at him like they wanted to eat him, giving him chilling flashbacks. No thank you. As he scrolled back in his memory, he remembered something.

“I went to dinner with the girl I met at the gym.”

“The fact that you had to think that hard to come up with an answer is proof enough. And you told me about that date—it was five months ago, and from what I recall, it was one dinner and you didn’t even kiss her. You need to get  _ laid, _ brother. The angst is practically dripping off the walls in here.”

“There’s no angst. I’m  _ fine, _ Cora.”

She raised her eyebrows at him and crossed her arms, an exact replica of a stance she used to take when they were growing up. When she’d catch him reading through her  _ Babysitters Club _ books or arranging her dolls just right. She’d stand in the doorway, just like she was doing right now. He was filled with fondness for the memory, and, not for the first time since Kate’s death, so pleased to actually have  _ good _ memories surface instead of traumatic ones. It had happened often over the last two years, and it lightened him a little more every time. It was almost like he could believe he was actually healing.

He looked over at Cora’s disbelieving expression and added, “And I don’t  _ jerk it _ all the time in here.”

“Only after Stiles leaves, right?”

“Cora…” he warned, his voice taking on a subvocal growl.

“What? I may live in Brazil, but ya girl can’t help but notice the  _ pining,  _ even over the telephone from six thousand miles away _. _ ” She crossed the room and held onto his shoulders, looking up at him. “It’s not good for you. He’s with Lydia, and across the country, and you’re  _ here. _ You need to go out and try to meet some new people.”

“I’m fine.”

“Derek. You either come out with me tonight, get some beers and take a look around— _ really _ take a look around—or I’m downloading both Tinder and Grindr and swiping right on the first 15 people that pop up.”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t think I won’t, Derek Hale! I love you, and I want you to be happy. Can you honestly say you are right now?”

Derek paused to think about it. The thing is, he actually  _ was _ happy. His life was in a good place. He was respected in the community again, he had started a side job as a carpenter (working with his hands was as therapeutic as being in the Preserve), he had built this home from the ground up (no he would  _ not _ think about how much help Stiles had been at the beginning, no he would not). The pack had solidified relations with neighboring packs, and the attacks on the town had been fewer and fewer.

But, yeah...relationally? He was lonely. He’d never tell Cora, but he often spent Saturdays with a Redbox rental, a bath, and a bottle of wine. And last week it wasn’t  _ Love and Basketball _ , so she could fuck off with her assumptions. (It was  _ When In Rome _ . What could he say? Kristen Bell was stupidly charismatic.)

He knew he’d never get out of this. Cora was persistent, and he’d never hear the end of it if he said no (and he had no doubt that she’d download things onto his phone—he was clueless and she knew it). He shrugged her hands off his shoulders. “Fine. I’ll go out with you.  _ Once.” _

“Yes!” Cora exclaimed. “I’m going to go shower. You need to put on something that makes your ass look amazing.”

Derek groaned. “I regret this already.”

She leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek. “You love me.”

He rolled his eyes at her as she headed into the guest bathroom. He gathered up the rest of the paint materials and his tools and started outside to his workshop for clean up. He stopped in the doorway for a moment when he realized the clouds were rolling in. It actually smelled like it was going to rain—maybe he’d get out of the ‘night out on the town’ after all. 

“Hey Cora,” he called out to her. “It looks like rain. Want to order some Thai food?” 

“Yeah!” she yelled back at him, her voice muffled by the closed door. “But don’t think this gets you out of going out!”

He grumbled to himself as he went out to the workshop. He put the paint cans and drop cloths away, and dropped the brushes and rollers into the sink. He pulled out his phone and called the local Thai delivery, ordering enough for the two of them before turning back to the sink and cleaning out the brushes. 

As he cleaned, he found himself pondering over what Cora had said. He didn’t think he’d been horribly lonely. He really had been busy with the house and work with the pack. Thinking about it now, he wondered if he’d thrown himself into it so much  _ because _ it had distracted him from Stiles’ absence.

It had been a long time since Stiles had left—almost two years already—and it’d been incredibly hard for Derek at first. He felt for a while like a part of him had been muted by Stiles’ leaving. But slowly and surely, Derek had developed a routine back in Beacon Hills, and it was easier as more time passed. Of course, every time Stiles returned to town, he felt the familiar tug on his heart, but he felt like he’d done a fairly good job at keeping anything personal under wraps. He’d never told anyone how heavy Stiles’ departure had weighed on him, and none of the pack seemed the wiser about it. They were all too busy with their own grief. They all missed Stiles.

Since the move, Derek hadn’t kept in touch with Stiles that much. He wasn’t  _ avoiding _ him, really. Not on purpose. They texted every once in a while, mainly catching up on pack news, or how school was going, progress on the house, stuff like that; but Derek knew that Stiles was under intense pressure with entrance exams for the FBI, and Derek didn’t want to be a bother. Plus, Derek was busy with his own things—the carpentry hobby that he’d started as a way to work with his hands had turned into a steady business once Melissa had seen the dining table that he had made. She started talking up his work to the people at the hospital, and soon he had a steady flow of projects. He loved diving into the wood with tools and his claws, and making a piece come to life.

There was also a part of him that just...didn’t know what to say. He wanted to explain why he hadn’t asked Stiles to stay. But no matter how he mulled it over in his mind, he couldn’t figure out how to broach the subject without making it awkward, so he just kept quiet. Derek felt the lingering unanswered questions between them, but it was hard during Stiles’ time on his return visits to really dive into what he wanted to say—there just was never the right time. Those visits home were usually around the holidays, or for a weekend in the summer, and Stiles had a million things to pack into that time. 

Also, he was still with Lydia. That wasn’t something that had changed, and Derek wasn’t about to be the person who drove a wedge into someone’s relationship. Derek had observed them during their visits. Sometimes they came back together, sometimes not. They always seemed...fine. They had always been a little handsy with each other, even when they were just friends, and that hadn’t changed much. But they never made anyone uncomfortable with it. Derek could see the subtle ways that they maneuvered through each other’s orbits—like their gravitational pulls never got too far away from each other before snapping them tight again.

Derek was happy to see it, really. Stiles deserved to have someone in his life, someone to love him and take care of him, and challenge him. And what better story than the one where you crush on someone for years and then they return the feelings? It was something straight out of a romantic movie—Derek would know, he’d watched enough of them.

The paint brushes were clean just as the rain started coming down in buckets. He stacked them on some paper towels to dry, and put away the rest of the tools in the shed. Dinner would arrive at any minute, and he really wanted a shower before he sat down to eat. He locked the workshop and sprinted inside, still managing to get soaked in just the few steps from the shed to the porch. He knew Cora would continue to push the bar thing, so he’d at least have to make himself presentable. He threw some bills on the counter—leaving extra for the delivery person who was now going to arrive in the rain—and yelled at her to pay the delivery guy before he headed into the bathroom.

Once Cora had told him she was finally coming to visit, he put in a long couple weeks of finishing up the work in the guest room for her. New furniture, finishing the flooring, getting closet doors installed, paint. He’d listened to podcasts while he worked, and it sufficiently distracted him from the quiet house that seemed a little bit too empty. It was a room that he’d put off for far too long, not really having much need for the extra guest space when he didn’t have any guests to speak of. Isaac came in from France to stay with him once or twice a year, but that was about it. Everyone in the pack had their own places, and Jackson and Ethan would stay at Mrs. Martin’s house when they came into town. But Cora needed her own space. So he’d worked late into the night after he’d get off work, doing floors, finishing the drywall, installing the lighting and the closet shelving. 

The last thing was paint, and he intended to have it done before she arrived, but a big table and chairs order he’d needed to finish for the new coffee shop on Main Street came first, and the final coat just hadn’t been finished. Today, he hadn’t really stopped for lunch before Cora’s arrival, so he was starving. He scrubbed at the flecks of paint on his arms—he really shouldn’t have had Cora help him, she was a slob—and held his head under the spray, the warm water splashing over his shoulders. He heard the delivery guy arrive, Cora paying him and calling out.

“Be down in a minute!” he yelled back to her.

He was imagining settling into the couch with his food, scrolling through Netflix on his TV, but then groaned when he remembered that he was supposed to go out with Cora. Maybe he could put her off. Maybe, seeing the soaked delivery guy, she would change her mind. Cora wasn’t super fond of the cold rain here in California, perhaps it would be easier to convince her to change the bar night to another night—and give him enough time to cancel it altogether. Plus, how many people would actually go out on a night like this? Californians were allergic to the rain.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to meet anyone. Yeah, it’d be nice to have someone to spend with in the evenings after work, someone to curl up with on the couch, sleep in with on Saturdays. But Derek knew himself, knew he’d never be able to fully relax with someone he didn’t trust. And trusting for Derek? That was hard.

He’d been healing over the last couple of years, becoming more comfortable with friendship and being around other people in general. But dating? That was a different story. After all, he didn’t have the best track record. His relationship past included death, murder, betrayal, and abandonment, in that order. To say he was reluctant to trust anyone else would have been an understatement. It just seemed safer to kind of lock down that part of himself. Settle for romantic comedies and his right hand for comfort. His wolf often whined for more, but he just couldn’t figure out how to trust anyone with his secrets and his past.

If he were honest, the only one he could think of that he ever trusted completely was Stiles.

He finished the shower and got dressed, in a suitable pair of ass-highlighting pants and a henley, and went out to the kitchen where the food smelled incredible to his empty stomach.

Dinner with Cora was fairly normal. She caught him up on the goings-on in Brazil since Gerard’s werewolf slaughters, when she took it upon herself to begin defending the Nemeton there. As she talked about her friends and her girlfriend, Derek felt the swell of pride at Cora’s leadership and initiative. She was doing the Hale name proud. Of course he wished he could see her more often, but their relationship was stronger than it had ever been, and Derek couldn’t have been happier.

They were just finishing dinner, Cora taking their dishes to the sink, when there was the barest of knocks at the door. If it weren’t for his werewolf hearing, he wouldn’t have noticed it above the downpour.

Cora looked at him questioningly. “Are you expecting someone?”

Derek pulled his phone from his pocket and frowned. “No one comes over in this weather unless it’s an emergency.” His mind immediately began racing through possibilities of danger. A few steps from the door, he froze. It was barely noticeable above the rain on the sidewalk, but he would know that heartbeat anywhere. 

_ He’s supposed to be in Virginia. What’s he doing here? _

“Derek, it’s me.” The voice barely filtered through the door. “Can you let me in, please?”

Derek took a deep breath and unlocked the door, opening it to reveal a very wet, very pissed-off-looking Stiles.

“Hi,” Stiles said, then looked downward, his voice quiet and curt. “Can I come in?”

When Derek stepped back to allow Stiles to pass through, the look of relief on Stiles’ face was so obvious, Derek wondered if his door wasn’t the first he had tried to knock on. He looked so dreadful that Derek didn’t even wince when Stiles left a trail of water along the hardwood floor. He was carrying two large duffel bags, one in each hand, which he dumped unceremoniously behind the couch before beginning to pace along the back side of the couch.

“Hey, is everything alright?” Derek asked.

Stiles waved him off, a muttered, “yeah, everything’s fine,” barely audible above the sound of his feet on the wood.

He wasn’t fine. He was twisting his hands together, pacing back and forth, the agitation rolling off of him in waves.

“Derek?” Cora asked, as she came out of the kitchen. “Who was it— _ oh. _ Hi Stiles.”

“Heyyy, Cora.” Stiles gave an awkward hand wave. “Long time no see, I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Yeah, I just got in.” Stiles kept pacing, twisting his hands, and Cora looked at Derek, her eyebrows raising.

Derek just stood inside the doorway, feeling more bewildered than ever. What was Stiles doing here? If he was in town, why wasn’t he at his dad’s? 

Cora cleared her throat. “Okay, well, I’m gonna go and leave you to it.” She crossed to where Derek was standing, and grabbed one of his jackets hanging by the door. Her purse was next, and she grabbed some keys off the hook by the door before patting him on the chest. “Derek, I’m taking your car.” She gave him a pointed look, and then left as quickly as Stiles had come. Derek could hear her swearing as she splashed through the yard to his car parked in the driveway.

Derek turned back to watch Stiles, who was still pacing, his wet jacket glistening from the lights reflecting in from the kitchen. His hair was plastered down on his head, the look making him appear softer and more vulnerable than Derek had seen him in a long time. But his eyes had some dark circles and, when Derek really looked, he seemed a little haunted. The longer the silence, the more worried Derek became.

Stiles seemed to finally notice the silence. “So, Cora’s in town. That’s nice.”

The absolute last person Derek expected to see on a random weeknight in October was Stiles Stilinski. He lived in Virginia. He was deep into his last year with the FBI Academy. He’d been sidelined from going into field work after the toe incident, but his transfer into intelligence analytics had been smooth. Derek had actually rested a lot easier knowing that Stiles wasn’t going to be weaseling his way out into the field again. He’d be safer that way. Catching criminals with his mind.

He also didn’t expect to see Stiles because he always stayed with the Sheriff, or with Mrs. Martin when Lydia came, too. He rarely came to see Derek—Stiles had never even been in this house before—yet here he was, drenched like a drowned rat, pacing in the living room and leaving a wet path on the floor.

“I haven’t seen her in a long time,” Stiles noted. “Is she visiting for a while? Did she bring her girlfriend?”

Derek eyed Stiles as his path became slower, widening to encompass the entire living room. Stiles didn’t really care about Cora. Not really. He wasn’t even looking at Derek when he asked. He was deflecting. It was one of his regular tactics, and to his credit, it usually worked. He’d distract, ask a million questions, move the topic in a different direction, completely avoiding the fact that he was 3,000 miles away from where he was supposed to be with duffel bags in tow, looking exhausted and soaked to the bone. Derek admired him for trying. But that wouldn’t work this time. Because Stiles even being here in the first place instead of at his Dad’s meant he had something he needed to say.

“Stiles, what are you doing here?” Derek asked.

“What do you mean?” The pacing continued. “Can’t I come visit my old friend?”

_ Oh. _ This wasn’t Stiles mad. A mad Stiles was wild gestures, running his hands through his hair, barely contained energy, two seconds away from bursting. This Stiles was barely held together, wound tight but two seconds away from collapsing on the floor. Derek just didn’t know  _ why. _

Derek tried to keep his voice as gentle as possible.  _ “Stiles.” _

Stiles slowed to a stop, and like a string holding his body upright was cut above his head, his entire body slumped and he let out a wet exhale.

“I left Lydia.” The words were a mere mumble, directed more to the wall than to Derek.

“At Ms. Martin’s house?” Derek asked.

“No,” Stiles scrubbed his hands across his face, a huff escaping his lips. _ “I left her.” _

With the words, all the sound in the room muted except for the sound of Stiles’ breath, Derek zeroing in on the steady heartbeat across from him. There was no skip, no indication of lying. But Derek didn’t need that. He only needed to look at the devastation written all over the man in front of him to know it was true. His wolf noticed, too, the low whine a steady background to his own racing thoughts.

He wanted to say something perfect. That one thing that would make Stiles feel okay again. Something that would fill his soul with the joy and the energy that it usually exuded, instead of the weight it seemed to be carrying at this moment. But Derek wasn’t good with words. He could never say anything that would fix this. Instead, he crossed the room, grabbed a thick blanket off the back of an armchair, and draped it over Stiles’ shoulders, guiding him around the side of the couch and gesturing for him to sit.

“I’m all wet,” Stiles said, his teeth scissoring over his lower lip.

Derek huffed and rolled his eyes. Like he even cared about that right now. Once Stiles was sitting, he kicked off his shoes and struggled to pull off his socks. He pulled up his feet, and Derek wrapped the blanket further around him and tugged it up around Stiles’ ears. Satisfied that he was at least covered, he went into the kitchen and started the tea kettle.

“We were doing great, you know?” Stiles turned sideways, his back resting against the arm of the couch and turned to Derek. “She was in her last year of her fellowship, I was finishing up at the Academy. I...thought we were done keeping secrets from each other.”

Derek waited, tense with anticipation, the water sloshing around the kettle as he set it on the stovetop.

“She got a full-time position at Oxford. And she just...took it. Didn’t even talk to me about it once.”

Derek busied himself getting out mugs and tea bags. He needed something to do with his hands, to make sure he didn’t do something stupid, like puncture holes in the countertops with his claws.

“I know it’s really prestigious," Stiles said. "And I’m super proud of her. But it’s like...I wasn’t even a consideration for her.”

The water was just at a boil, and Derek poured some into two mugs, dropping a tea bag in each mug and carrying them back to the couch. He handed one to Stiles, then sat at the opposite end of the couch. Stiles adjusted his legs and Derek tucked his toes under the blanket.

Stiles continued, “We’ve been together for three years. It isn’t like we haven’t talked about the future. The plan was always to work in the field office here. To come back  _ here.  _ We talked about that. We never talked about England.”

Derek blew into his mug slowly, carefully choosing his words. “The FBI has offices there, though, right? You  _ could _ get work there.”

“That’s what Lydia said. But...I don’t want to move to England. It’s hard enough being on the other side of the country. I don’t want to be away from my Dad anymore. Or Scott, or Melissa. They’re my family. I don’t want to be away from y—”

Stiles caught himself, and as Derek looked at him, he flushed and took a quick sip from his tea, then cursed as he burned his tongue. He held the mug in both hands, warming his long fingers.

“I told Lydia I wanted to come back here, and she basically laughed in my face. Said she planned to stay as far away from this place as she could, and that I was stupid for wanting to come back. We had a huge fight.”

“Fights happen all the time. It doesn’t mean they have to end the relationship.”

Stiles shook his head. “We’ve been fighting a lot over the last several months. About gunshot wounds she never told me about, about how she can’t help wishing Allison were still here, and of course I feel like shit every time she says that.”

“Do I need to remind you that wasn’t your fault?”

“Yeah, I know, but she has no girlfriends, and I can’t help but feel a little bit responsible for that.” He looked off to the opposite side of the room, a sad look in his eyes. “This was the last straw. It was just...another secret she kept from me. She planned a huge important part of her life without even thinking to include me. That’s just...not something you do with someone you think you’re going to spend the rest of your life with. Right?”

Derek opened his mouth to answer, but Stiles kept talking, his words tumbling together. “I know that the supernatural world scares her, but she wants to pretend it doesn’t exist. And that just isn’t possible. It’s a part of her DNA. I talked about having kids someday, and she said they’d probably be banshees, too, and that scared the shit out of her. Said she didn’t want kids at all.”

Derek noticed Stiles beginning to shiver from head to toe. The wet clothes weren’t helping anything.

“I’m just…” Stiles huffed. “I hate feeling like the last two years were a waste. I had this whole picture of what our life would be like, and I thought she was with me, but as it turned out she wasn’t on the same page. She wasn’t even in the same book.”

Stiles moved the mug to the coffee table and pulled his hands under the blanket, tightening it around his neck.  “I packed a couple of bags and she didn’t even try to stop me.”

“So you came back here,” Derek said.

Stiles sniffed and nodded, a shudder running through his body. “I got assigned to the office in Sacramento. I’ll get the rest of my stuff...sometime. Knowing Lydia she probably already has it boxed up.”

“But you came back  _ here.” _

Stiles took a deep breath, and looked up, for the first time really looking at Derek. “You were the only one that I knew that might understand how I’m feeling. Dad’s working, and his house isn’t really mine anymore, and Scott’s my brother, but…”

Derek gave him a half-smile. “No one knows women problems the way I do, huh?”

Stiles flailed a bit. “Oh my god, no, I...didn’t mean...I just…”

Derek reached a hand out, putting pressure gently on Stiles’ foot where it had poked out from under the blanket. Derek shivered at how cold it was. He squeezed it.

“Stiles, it’s okay. I’m glad you came here. You can stay as long as you need. I have a spare room—it’s usually Isaac’s when he comes into town, so don’t touch anything or he’ll bite you, but...stay.”

Stiles’ eyes glistened, and he swallowed thickly. He nodded his head with a small smile.

Derek got up and grabbed Stiles’ mug, taking it into the kitchen then heading to the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked after him, his voice wobbly from the shivering.

Derek looked back. “You’re freezing. You need to get out of those wet clothes. I’m going to get a bath ready for you.”

Stiles snickered. “You’re still into the bath thing, huh?”

“Don’t knock it until you try it.”

He went into the bathroom, turning on the taps and rooting in the cabinet under the sink for the salt and bubbles. He added in some lavender and some bubbles, and stirred the water with his hand, checking to make sure the temperature wasn’t too hot. When he was satisfied it was ready, a thick layer of bubbles along the top, he went back out to the living room.

“Bath is ready. I’ll put your bags in the spare room. But take your time. Are you hungry?”

Stiles stood up, his legs a little shaky as he retained his balance. “Nah. I don’t think I could eat anything right now. But thanks for the tea. Sorry about the spot on the couch.”

“It’s just water.” He led Stiles to the bathroom, taking the blanket when Stiles handed it to him. He tried not to notice how Stiles’ clothes clung to his wet skin, how his skin was pebbled from the cold. “Towels are there in the cabinet. Just leave your wet clothes on the floor and I can put them in the wash. He turned to go out the door.

“Hey Derek? Thanks.”

Derek nodded and smiled. “I’m glad you came here.”

He closed the door, and took a few deep breaths in and out. He never expected Stiles to come to his door again, especially not a broken and hurting Stiles. But Stiles had been there for him over the years, and no matter what his feelings had been, he refused to let them get in the way of helping out his friend who obviously needed someone to lean on right now. He heard Stiles’ clothes sploosh to the floor, and his deep exhale as he lowered himself into the tub. Before he could allow himself to picture what was happening, he turned back to the family room to get Stiles’ bags.

They were soaking wet, so he took them to the sink. The laundry wasn’t far away, so everything wet he threw into the dryer, and the rest of it he took out of the bags and put onto the dresser in Isaac’s—now Stiles’ room. He then took the bags to the laundry and threw them in the dryer, too.

He passed the bathroom door on his way to his own room, and heard the gentle noise of water lapping against the sides of the tub. Satisfied that Stiles was doing okay, he went to his bedroom and rifled through his closet until he found a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt that were a little small on him but should fit Stiles perfectly. He also grabbed a big pair of wool socks and took them into Stiles’ room to put them on the bed.

He went back to the bathroom door and gently knocked. 

“Stiles? Your stuff in your bags was all wet, so I threw things in the dryer and I have some sweats you can throw on. Can I come in and get your wet clothes?”

He didn’t get a response, but heard some soft noises behind the door.  
  
“Stiles?”

Stiles’ voice broke on his murmured, “Come on in.”

Derek gently pushed open the door, just enough to see inside. A pile of wet clothes was sitting next to the tub. Stiles was sitting chest-deep in the water, leaning forward against the side with his head resting on his crossed arms, his face towards the door. He was crying.

Derek stepped into the bathroom and closed the door, sealing the warm, moisture-filled air inside, the scent of lavender tickled his nose as he kneeled down next to the tub.

“Are...are you okay?” 

Derek felt like an idiot. Of  _ course _ Stiles wasn’t okay. But what else could he say? The tears ran down Stiles’ face and made tracks in the long hairs on his arms. Derek could smell the salt. 

Stiles broke the silence with a shattered murmur.

“Why wasn’t I enough for her?”

Derek’s wolf let out a long, mournful howl in his head. Derek immediately wanted to shush him, to make Stiles’ sorrow evaporate into the vapor filling the room around them. He wanted to tell Stiles that none of it was his fault. Stiles was always strong—so strong it didn’t even make sense sometimes—and to see him this self-doubting and broken had Derek aching to help. But he felt paralyzed, unable to figure out how to make the pain go away in an instant, when he knew it wasn’t possible. It would just take time. Then Derek remembered a moment in his past where he, too, had felt utterly broken. And he had been comforted by a solitary hand on his shoulder.  It was the least he could do in return.

He settled himself next to the tub, and lifted his elbow next to Stiles on the rim of the tub. Then he lowered his hand slowly, until it rested atop Stiles’ head. He rubbed the pads of his fingers in slow circles, massaging his scalp, and feeling Stiles’ shuddered exhale underneath them. 

Derek didn’t say a word. Neither did Stiles. They just sat, the tears running down Stiles’ arms and splashing to the floor, and Derek’s fingers carding through Stiles’ hair.

Lydia didn’t see how important Stiles was. Lydia didn’t see him as enough for her. But Derek would be there for Stiles until he couldn’t deny it.

_ You’ll always be enough, Stiles. You’ve always been enough for me. _

You’re everything.

You’re still everything.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

***********

**Five.**

_“You wanted me to be your anchor, but you didn’t realize that meant I had to drown.”  
_ _— any-ocean_

****************

 

“I swear to god, Stiles, if you don’t stay in this Jeep, I’m going to—”

“—Rip my throat out with your teeth, yadda, yadda...Derek Hale, you’ve gotta get new threats, man. These are _tired._ You’ve been saying that for well over 5 years, it just doesn’t have any bite to it anymore.”

The Jeep rolled to a wheezing stop next to the woods on the outside of town, not far from the preserve. Stiles threw it into park and killed the engine. Well, Derek hoped it wasn’t actually _killed,_ they definitely needed a ride out of here. How this tin can was still running was beyond him. Maybe Stiles _was_ magical. After all, there’s no way this thing was still running with only duct tape and dreams holding it together.

 _“I’m_ tired. Of saving your ass all the time,” Derek said pointedly, giving him a stern look as he got out of the passenger seat and pulled the seat forward to let Malia and Isaac out.

“And believe me,” Stiles said, “my ass is grateful to you, man. But if you think I’m just here to be an Uber, you’ve got another thing coming.

Stiles started to move up out of his seat, but Scott reached over from the backseat and pulled him back. “Stiles, _don’t._ Just...stay in the car, alright? This shouldn’t take long.” Stiles audibly groaned, and Scott unfolded his legs and got out of the car next to Derek, who slammed the door.

Stiles flailed his hands against the steering wheel. “ _Jesus,_ Scott! Don’t you know _anything?_ We have the luck of some stupid supernatural television show! You say ‘I’ll be right back’, you’re gonna get killed. You say, ‘this won’t take long,’ and someone’s getting thrown through a time loop.”

“It’s not that dramatic, Stiles. It’s just a lost satyr,” Scott said with rolled eyes.

“Exactly! Come _on!_ It’s a _satyr!_ Did you know—”

“—that it has a permanent, exaggerated erection?” Isaac interrupted from outside. “ _Yes, Stiles,_ you’ve told us every hour since we figured out what it was.”

“Then _come on!_ Don’t make me stay in here, I’ve gotta see this!”

Scott, Isaac, and Malia all ignored him and started their trek into the woods, while Derek remained at the window, looking at Stiles. “We have talked about this, it’s looking for unattached _humans._ _You_ qualify. We don’t.”

Derek didn’t miss the look that crossed Stiles’ face. The look that said, _whose fault is that?_ But Stiles didn’t mention it. He just added, “Satyrs are strictly het males, I’m not in any danger.”

“You’re awfully pretty, though. Maybe he’ll change his mind for you.” Derek almost choked on his own words. He can’t believe he just said that out loud.

Stiles sat up straighter for a moment. “You really think I’m pretty enough that he’d turn gay for me? Derek, that’s so sweet.”

Stiles was more than pretty. But Derek wasn’t about to tell him that. They had more important things to take care of first. He was about to reinforce _again_ that Stiles needed to stay in the goddamned fucking car, but his glare of death must have worked, because Stiles threw his hands up in surrender before he could say anything.

“ _Fine._ That’s fine.” He yelled at the retreating backs of Scott, Isaac, and Malia, “ _I hate all of you!_ Staying in the car, okay?”

“You’d better. We fight better when you’re not around.”

Derek ignored the look of hurt on Stiles’ face. “Deaton and Chris will be here in five minutes. Tell them where we are.” Then he turned to follow the other werewolves down the path.

He should’ve taken a minute to explain. It wasn’t that they didn’t want Stiles around. He was one hell of a tactician, and now he had decent fighting skills due to the Academy training, even with his missing toe. But Derek didn’t want him around because he spent the entire time they were fighting worrying about if Stiles was okay. He couldn’t focus. And this satyr was becoming more aggressive. They were just on the edge of a fight, and Derek didn’t want Stiles to get hurt.

The problem was Malia. The others had a 45-second head start on him, but apparently that’s all it took to whip the satyr into a rage. There was an unearthly scream, and the sound of a scuffle. Derek started to run. When he arrived in the clearing, Isaac was already sprawled out on the ground, unconscious.

“What the hell, Scott?” Derek yelled as the satyr kicked up dirt behind him and narrowed his gaze at Malia.

“I don’t know! Malia just greeted him!”

Derek wanted to scream. He _knew_ Scott wasn’t listening when they went over the plan. He managed a barely-contained yell instead. “Satyrs exercise a patriarchal society, Scott! Women aren’t supposed to talk!”

“That’s bullshit!” Malia screamed back, facing the satyr and crouching in a defensive stance. “We’re not living in the dark ages!”

“He doesn’t care about your feminism, Malia!” Derek yelled.

“Apparently not! _Oh shit—”_ Scott was cut off by the charging satyr, a shrill shriek splitting the air. Scott had to dive out of the way to barely miss getting gored by the satyr’s twin horns. Malia let out a loud growl and leapt toward the satyr, her claws extended. The satyr turned with surprising speed and kicked out at her with his hoofed foot. He caught her in the stomach and she reeled back, falling to the ground and writhing in pain.

Derek felt the shift ripple through his features, and he roared in anger. Scott was leaping to his feet at the same time. They both pounced on the satyr, Scott on one side, Derek on the other. Derek’s claws ripped into the flesh on the satyr’s back, and it arched its back with a scream. Scott was just about to sink his claws into the satyr’s chest, when it whipped his head around and knocked him out with an intense thud to the side of his head with its horns. The intensity loosened Derek’s hold, and the satyr took advantage by grabbing onto Derek and wrestling him to the ground. Derek was underneath, blocking the punches and scrambling his legs to avoid being trampled by the satyr’s back hooves. With its horns and its surprising strength, it was an intense struggle, and Derek was quickly exhausted.

The satyr reared back with a primal scream, ready to gore him, when a foot came from the side and kicked the Satyr in the head, just behind its horns. A dazed look crossed his face, and it stumbled back, just enough for Derek to scramble free. He pulled himself upright to see Stiles, a triumphant smile on his face.

“You fight better when I’m not around, eh? My ninja skills just saved your wolfy ass.”

“Stiles, _no!”_

When one of the satyr’s curved horns pierced directly through Stiles’ left shoulder and burst through the front of his shirt, the look of surprise on Stiles’ face was a stark contrast to the terror that lit up like lightning through Derek’s body. It was a frozen painting; the small round _o_ of Stiles’ mouth, the curve of the wicked horn through the plaid fibers, the satyr’s wicked hands grasping Stiles’ upper arms to hold him off the ground. The satyr ripped himself free and pushed Stiles forward into Derek’s arms. The satyr scuffed the ground, readying himself to ram into Stiles again, but Scott and Malia both roared, turning the satyr’s head at the last moment. They leapt on it from behind, their claws tearing into the already-damaged skin on its back. It screamed, whipping back and forth, spinning frantically and throwing off the pair before running into the forest, a blood trail splattering the ground behind it.

Derek was frozen, a groaning Stiles slumped against him. The coppery tang of the blood oozing out of his shoulder filled Derek’s nose. It was a lot. Too much. Scott, Malia, and a wobbly Isaac stood where the satyr had been just moments before, staring back at Derek and the limp Stiles in his arms. He quickly lowered Stiles to the ground, propping him on his uninjured side and trying not to jostle him too much. Every motion made Stiles whimper and gasp in pain, and Derek’s wolf whined louder every time he did.

Derek ripped off his jacket as he knelt next to Stiles’ body, packing it as best he could around the front and back side of the wound. He tried, in vain it seemed, to stem the flow of blood and ignore Stiles’ cries of pain. A faint rotten eggs smell erupted from the pierced skin. Derek didn’t want to think about what it was. He couldn’t. His mind was racing.

“ _Fuck,_ dude, that hurts.” Stiles’ left arm was basically useless, dragging against the dirt and pine needles beneath them. Derek grabbed his hand and started leeching the pain, the black veins trailing up his arms and causing him to gasp. Scott knelt down, too, and held Stiles’ head off the ground.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Derek gritted against the pain.

Stiles’ voice was strained. “I heard the screaming and figured you could use my help.”

“We were fine.”

“Didn’t look that way— _nngh—”_ Stiles’ eyes squeezed tight, a burst of air from his lips coming out on a grunt. _“—fuck,_ this fucking hurts.”

Footfalls snapped against branches to their left, and Derek’s head turned to see Chris and Deaton approaching. Derek wanted to cry in relief. The doctor would know what to do.

“Where’d it go?” Chris asked as he entered the clearing with a crossbow at the ready, Deaton a few steps behind.

“That way,” Malia pointed into the woods. “It’s injured.”

“Malia, you come with me. Isaac, stay with Derek,” Chris said firmly, hustling down the path, eyes tracking the blood trail.

“What’s that smell?” Scott asked, scenting the air. Isaac’s nose wrinkled when he smelled it, too.

Deaton joined him. “I don’t smell anything.”

“It smells like rotten eggs,” Derek said. “It’s from Stiles’ wound, and it’s getting stronger.”

Stiles groaned, and Deaton looked grave. “It’s poison.”

“Satyrs horns are poisonous?” Derek asked. “That wasn’t in our research.”

“Something new to add to the bestiary,” Deaton remarked. “They’re generally known as lovers, not fighters.”

“Hey, look at that! I can add it to the bestiary,” Stiles wheezed. “Score one for practical research.”

“Which one of you angered it?” Deaton asked.

Scott had the decency to look embarrassed.

“Well, the good thing,” Deaton continued, looking at Scott with a critical eye, “is the poison is slow-acting. The bad thing is it will kill him if not treated correctly.”

“What do we do?” Derek felt his voice strain. He needed to get up. He needed to get Stiles out of here. The satyr was still out there, his wound was still open—Derek could feel the jacket getting saturated—and now poison? It was too much. Stiles was too fragile as a human.

“Take him home and fill the tub with hot water. Scott, come with me. He’ll need to injest an anti-venom first, and then bathe in another to leech out the poison.”  Deaton looked down at Stiles, whose eyes were drooping, the whimpers getting softer. “You have to stay awake, Stiles. Don’t fall asleep.”

“Ahll trry.” Stiles managed, his words beginning to slur with the pain.

Deaton hurried back in the direction of the cars.

Scott spoke up. “Are you going to call his dad?”

Stiles suddenly struggled a bit, gasping against the pain. “—Don’ tell mah dad.”

“Easy, Stiles, I know,” Derek shushed him. “No. We’ll go to our house, it’s not far. John doesn't need to know.” (Yet, Derek thought.) Stiles relaxed against him, and Derek locked eyes with Scott. “ _Run,_ Scott.”

Scott’s eyes flashed red and he nodded once before disappearing after Deaton. Isaac knelt down next to Derek, a dazed look on his face. The head wound was healed by now, but he still looked terrified. “I’m so sorry, Derek. It attacked so fast—”

“—Don’t blame yourself, Isaac. We didn’t expect this. Here. Can you help me lift him?” Derek didn’t really need the help—Stiles could put on an extra 200 pounds and Derek still wouldn’t have trouble—but Isaac was shaking and he needed to do something to help in order to focus his energy.

“Come on, Stiles. We have to get you out of here.” Isaac said. The two of them lifted Stiles as gently as possible. Derek took the brunt of Stiles’ weight, which was really nothing.

Derek winced against Stiles’ noises of pain and complaint. Derek remembered carrying Stiles like this not that long ago. Stiles had been injured then, too. How many times had he been hurt? But it wasn’t anything like this. There’d be no jokes this time. Stiles was in serious trouble. The rotten egg smell made Derek want to throw up, but he breathed as shallowly as possible and made his way as quickly as he could to the Jeep. Stiles’ head was lolling back against Derek’s shoulder, and his eyes were drooping heavily. _Deaton said he needed to stay awake._

“You’re going to be fine, Stiles,” Derek said as much to himself as to the man in his arms. “But why do I always end up carrying you?”

“Yourr forgettin. I carry’d you lass time.” After what felt like forever, Derek arrived back at the Jeep. He pulled the door open, not easy with his arms full of Stiles, and arranged him in the front seat, Stiles gasping and whimpering. Isaac went to the driver’s side and climbed in the backseat.

Derek ran around the front of the car and jumped in, turning the key that Stiles had left in the ignition _(what the fuck, Stiles?)_ , and throwing the car into drive.

“Your memory about that night is very suspect.”

“My mem’ry iss great. You werr surrounded. I sav’d you.” Stiles slumped over against Derek’s shoulder as they rounded a corner. Derek kept one hand gripped on the steering wheel, the other holding Stiles against the seat so he wouldn’t pitch forward. They were almost to his house, but the roads out here weren’t so much roads as they were dirt paths, which wouldn’t help Stiles’ wound.

“You saved me tonight.”

“Yesss...Sorry I leff the car. I juss want’d to makshurr you were okay.”

Derek looked over at Stiles for a brief moment. He was looking at him with those big, brown eyes in apology, and Derek tightened his hold on Stiles’ chest. Stiles pulled his right hand up to rest on top of Derek’s. Derek turned his eyes back to the road as he felt his throat tighten. They always looked out for each other. Derek shouldn’t have been surprised that Stiles showed up in that clearing. It was just who he was. He always showed up.

“That _smell,_ Derek.” Isaac noted from the backseat.

“I know,” Derek said tersely. The air was thick with the smell of the poison, and it was making him nauseous.

Derek finally spotted the light from his front porch, and he exhaled with relief. He drove as fast as he could, trying to avoid jostling the Jeep too much, which was nearly impossible. He thought he was doing fine, since Stiles hadn’t whimpered as much, but that was before Derek realized that Stiles was slumped against his shoulder.

“ _Stiles. Wake up!”_

“Mmm ‘wake,” Stiles murmured, barely heard over the engine.

“We’re here. Isaac, go open the door.”

Derek pulled up next to the house and threw the car into park, barely turning the car off before jumping out of the door. In the next second, he was lifting Stiles out of the seat as gently as he could. As Stiles’ head fell back across his bicep, Derek noticed black tendrils creeping out of the collar of Stiles’ shirt. They looked alive, creeping upward like slow-moving smoke.

Another bad sign. Isaac had opened the door and thrown on the lights, and now he stood off to the side, wringing his hands and looking lost. Derek would deal with him in a little bit. Stiles took precedence.

“Stay with me, Stiles. C’mon.”

Derek angled his body so that Stiles’ lolling head didn’t hit the frame. Derek spared the barest of glances at the black droplets on the patio—he’d have to deal with them later—before kicking the door closed behind him and rushing into the house.

Derek’s heart raced with adrenaline and fear. How much time had passed since they had left the clearing? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Whatever it was, they had zero time left. Stiles’ breathing was shallow, and Derek could hear his heartbeat fading with every second that passed.

_Come on, Scott. Hurry up._

Derek strode purposefully to the bathroom, flipping the light on with an awkward shove of his elbow and gingerly setting Stiles upright on the toilet lid. He didn’t stay upright for long, immediately slumping forward and almost pitching himself onto the floor. Derek caught him just before his face hit the tile.

“Stiles, wake up. You have to fight this.”

The barest of mutters escaped Stiles’ lips, the brief sign of life sending a flood of relief through Derek’s system.

“Come on, Stiles. _Fight it._ Wake up.” Derek saw Stiles’ eyebrows raise minutely, the smallest slit of eyeball appearing as he struggled to lift his eyelids.

“Jus...wanna...sleep…”

“I know, but you _can’t sleep,_ Stiles. You have to open your eyes.”

The black staining on Stiles’ skin was spreading fast, tendrils now creeping down his arms and up around his neck, the poison working through his system. So fast. Deaton said it would be slow, but nothing about those black tendrils indicated slow.

Keeping one hand on Stiles’ chest, Derek stretched across to the tub and flipped the hot water nozzle up as high as it would go. He stretched and barely turned the cold knob. Deaton had said the water needed to be as hot as Stiles could handle in order for the reversal spell to work.

“Don’...boss me….sourwuff…”

Stiles shoved drunkenly at Derek’s hand, and pitched forward once more, heavily falling off the side of the toilet seat.

“Shit! _No no no no no_ !” Derek caught him again by the waist. Stiles’ head lolled sideways, his mouth slack and loose. Derek held on firmly, shaking Stiles just enough to rouse him, but not enough to hurt him—he’d been hurt enough tonight. “Look at me. _Open your eyes! Come on!”_

Stiles’ eyes remained shut, the tendrils of black, like living death under Stiles’ skin, inching up his face. A looming sense of overwhelming panic flooded through Derek. He couldn’t lose Stiles. Not like this. Not without telling him.

“Isaac!” Derek yelled.

Isaac was in the doorway in a moment, his breath catching when he saw Stiles.

Derek looked over his shoulder, tried to hide his own fear from Isaac. “Go get John, okay? Bring him back here.”

Isaac’s eyes widened with the command, and Derek turned back to Stiles. He couldn’t let Isaac see his worry. Derek heard Isaac’s whispered _okay_ before the footsteps crossed the house and the front door closed behind him. The thought that John _needed_ to be here sent cold shivers across Derek’s spine. But he couldn’t keep him from this. He needed to be here...just in case.

The tub was very nearly full, the steam rising from the surface of the water, and Derek held Stiles close as he leaned over and turned off the tap. The thought of waiting much longer was going to send Derek into a spiral. _Where the fuck was Scott?_ What was the point of being a true alpha if it didn’t give you better instincts and better speed?

Derek struggled to pull the mangled and soaked shirt off of Stiles’ shoulders, finally resorting to using his claws to tear the last pieces from his arms. The mixture of black and red blood stains on Stiles’ bare chest made Derek’s gut clench in terror. The wound on his shoulder was ugly and raw, and Derek put his palm directly over it, pulling the pain as much as he could. If he could still pull pain, that was a good sign.

“Derek!”

Scott’s voice was faint from the front door of the house, and Derek felt like weeping at the sound of it.

“In here!”

He pulled Stiles close, holding the dead weight of his body over his own shoulder. Scott appeared in the doorway, his breathing heavy, sweat pouring over his body. His eyes widened at the sight of Stiles draped lifelessly over Derek’s shoulder.

“Oh my god. Am I too late? Is he dead?”

“He will be in less than a minute if we don’t do something _now._ Do you have it?” Derek’s throat ached with the barely-contained yell.

“Yes!” He held up two packets. “The big one is for the bath. The small one he needs to ingest.”

“Gimme the big one. Get a cup from the kitchen for the other. _For god’s sake, hurry.”_

Derek slid Stiles off the toilet seat, dragging his feet along the tile to the edge of the tub. The water was steaming, filling the tub over halfway. Derek tore open the packet with his teeth, and a trail of green-tinged smoke poured from the opening, stinging his eyes. He dumped the packet into the stream of water still pouring into the tub, the herbs emitting a loud hiss as they hit the water.

“Did Chris and Malia kill the satyr?” Derek yelled to Scott as the water in the tub turned a deep, murky green color.

Scott emerged back in the doorway and handed Derek the cup of purple liquid, his eyes downcast.

 _“They didn’t find it yet?”_ Derek wanted to howl in frustration as he grabbed the cup, rolling Stiles off his shoulder so he was seated in Derek’s lap on the floor. His head fell back at an uncomfortable angle, and Scott immediately fell to the floor to grasp Stiles’ head and hold it steady.

“They _tried,_ Derek. The thing is wicked fast with horns like a motherfucker. You saw it. Chris is tracking it now, and Peter’s on his way. The three of them will be able to take care of it.”

Derek tipped the purple liquid in the cup into Stiles’ mouth. He tried not to think about how Stiles didn’t swallow, didn’t choke on the contents as they ran down his throat.

“Did Deaton say how long this would take to work?”

Scott shook his head. “No, just that he needed to be awake before you put him in the bath. And that the bath needs to touch as much bare skin as possible.”

Derek concentrated on not spilling a drop of the liquid, his eyes intent on the black lines creeping up Stiles’ skin. “Go help Malia. I’ve got this.”

Scott hesitated for a moment, looking concernedly at Derek. “Are—are you sure? I can stay to help—”

Derek’s eyes flashed. “ _Get the fuck out of here, Scott!_ Go get rid of what did this before it does it to someone else!”

Scott looked between Derek and the closed eyes of Stiles for a brief moment longer, before nodding. “Call me when he wakes up, alright?”

Derek heard the front door slam as he poured the last of the contents of the cup down Stiles’ throat and tossed the cup aside. The smoke from the bathtub had a pungent smell, and it teased Derek’s nose in an unpleasant manner, but he shoved aside his own discomfort. He worked on getting Stiles’ pants off—he internally apologized when he ended up just using his claws to tear them off.

“Come on, Stiles.” Derek’s voice had a tinge of desperation he couldn’t shake. What if they were too late? What if the poison had already spread too far? Stiles wouldn’t wake up, and then...what? Stiles would die.

What was Derek supposed to do then?

He hadn’t even gotten a chance to tell Stiles _anything._

“Please, Stiles.” Derek leaned forward, his arms around Stiles’ back, one supporting his head, the other spanning behind his waist. Derek’s forehead rested against Stiles’ cheek, and his voice was barely above a whisper as he pressed his words into Stiles’ blackened skin. “Please don’t go. Your dad needs you, and Scott...and…”

Derek searched Stiles’ skin for clues that the black was receding, but the tendrils swirled under his skin, like a living tattoo, and Derek felt paralyzed, waiting for a sign, any sign that Stiles would be okay.

Derek tilted his head upward, his lips brushing Stiles’ ear. “...And _I_ need you. I love you.”

It was his first time saying those words since he was a stupid 16-year old kid, saying them to a woman who never deserved them. But now, the man lying in his arms deserved to hear those words. He deserved everything good and perfect, not poison and bleeding out on the floor in a bathroom.

He clung to Stiles’ skin, brushing gently against his forehead, the line of his ear, the hollow of his throat. He painted the skin on Stiles’ cheeks with his fingertips, pleading for the black to recede and be replaced with the red blush of life once again. Stiles breath was shallow, rattling in his chest, the heartbeat slowing and barely registering in Derek’s ears.

He wasn’t going to make it.

With the fire, he hadn’t had a chance to imagine his life without his family—one day they were alive, and the next they were gone, and he’d had a long time to figure out how he felt and how he’d react.  But now, faced with the possibility of watching Stiles die, and imagining what life would be like without him? He felt the tether on his humanity beginning to unravel. How would he tell John? And Scott? How could he live in this town, in this house, where Stiles’ life had been taken? He had done this life without his family already, and it was miserable. But to lose Stiles? To lose his anchor? To lose the one he loved?

What was life without him? Without the rambling observances and the inappropriate jokes and the constant teasing? Without the stupid Jeep and the ridiculous flannels and the feet that were too big and the lips that were so perfect? Without the smirks and the finger guns and the earnestness? What was life without everything that made Stiles perfect?

It was empty. And Derek could already feel his heart hollowing out beneath him, his wolf readying itself to take over. He lowered his forehead to Stiles’ and whispered out loud, asking for this one thing.

_“Please, Stiles. Please come back to me.”_

After a few agonizing moments, Derek felt muscles twitch under his fingers just before Stiles choked out a series of coughs and then a deep gasp of breath. Derek lifted his head in surprise, his own gasp punctuating the silence, just in time to see the black lines receding from Stiles’ eyes as quickly as they had come, returning to the beautiful, deep caramel color that he adored.

“Oh thank God,” Derek managed.

Stiles stared back at Derek, his eyes emerging from the fog, blinking and focusing, flicking back and forth. Stiles’ eyebrows crinkled in confusion for just a moment before his eyes saw something in Derek’s face and they suddenly softened. He was just opening his mouth to say something when his entire body seized up and started shaking uncontrollably.

“Derek?” Stiles croaked. “What’s happening?”

Derek pushed off the floor, angling his body to get better leverage and heaved a shuddering Stiles upward and onto the edge of the tub. He adjusted his grip, sliding one arm under Stiles’ knees, the other behind his back, and lifted him bridal-style just before lowering him into the tub. Stiles’ body seized again, trying to escape Derek’s grip and the water inside the tub.

“Water’s...fucking...hot!”

“Deaton said it has to be hot.” Derek adjusted his grip so he could lean Stiles against the back of the tub.

“Yeah, well he isn’t the one that has to sit in this boiling swamp, is he? _Jesus Christ!”_

Derek wanted to laugh and cry all at the same time. Stiles was okay. He was sitting in the tub—well, squirming in the tub—but he was alive. The water in the tub was slowly changing from a murky green to a light pink as the poison leeched itself from Stiles’ system, the rotten egg smell fading into nothing. As the poison exited Stiles’ body, he relaxed more and more, his head leaning against the edge of the tub.

“My balls are going to be boiled.”

Derek snorted. Thirty seconds ago, Stiles was on death’s knife edge, and now he was worried about his junk. Only Stiles.

Derek couldn’t help roaming his eyes over Stiles’ face, watching as life slowly returned to his body. All the evidence of the poison was fading from his skin, his cheeks were pinking up again, and his eyes were bright again. It was the best thing Derek had ever seen. Derek felt wetness on his own cheeks, but he didn’t even care if Stiles saw.

Stiles started slowly moving, hissing and grunting a bit as he calculated his injuries. His right hand trailed up to his left shoulder to inspect his wound, and Derek reached out with his left hand to grab Stiles’ hand.

“Don’t.”

Stiles hesitated, then smiled faintly, looking down at their joined hands. Derek flushed a bit and tried to pull his hand away, but Stiles held on, and adjusted his grip so their fingers intertwined.

“So…” Stiles said, his voice uncharacteristically shy, his eyes on their hands. “I think I was on the brink of death...but I’m pretty sure I heard you talking…”

Stiles started sliding his thumb back and forth along the back of Derek’s hand. Derek couldn’t take his eyes off of it. It felt like every pass back and forth erupted a path of heat on his skin. He felt the goosebumps erupt on his arms, out of nerves or excitement, he couldn’t tell.

This was it. There’d been a few times over the last six months since Stiles’ return when there’d been the possibility of opening up more between them. But it had never felt quite right—that perhaps enough time hadn’t passed since the breakup, that maybe Stiles wasn’t ready yet, that _Derek himself_ wasn’t ready yet.

He tore his eyes away from their joined hands, and looked into Stiles’ eyes, which were flicking back and forth over his face again, searching.

“What?” Derek murmured.

“When I woke up, you were looking at me like...like you’re looking at me now.” He gently squeezed Derek’s hand.

Derek saw the moisture welling up in Stiles’ eyes. He lifted his right hand to Stiles’ cheek, using his thumb to catch the tear just as it fell. He could pull away, leave Stiles to privacy, call Melissa.

But...looking into Stiles’ eyes, he _couldn’t._ He let his hand stay on Stiles’ face, and when Stiles gave a half-smile and leaned into it, he knew.

It was finally their time.

He leaned forward, ignoring the press of the edge of the tub against his chest, and pressed his forehead to Stiles’. Their joined hands were between their bodies, and Derek’s other hand slid behind Stiles’ neck, holding him gently. He closed his eyes, and just breathed in the sweet smell of his anchor.

“I love you, Stiles,” Derek breathed.

Stiles let out a long, shaky exhale.

“Oh my god.” The wonder in Stiles’ voice made Derek’s eyes open, and the blinding smile on Stiles’ face made Derek’s heart flood with warmth. Derek felt Stiles’ chin angling forward, and Derek met him halfway, their lips pressing together gently.

Derek had kissed a lot of people—some wanted, many unwanted—but nothing felt like this. This was a kiss that exuded a sense of calmness, of rightness that he had never felt with anyone in his life before. They were minutes from death, blood-coated, grass-stained and exhausted, but Derek had never felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be until this moment. Stiles’ soft lips moving beneath him, the soft noises he was making in his throat as Derek held his head, everything felt perfect.

His wolf, ever alert, ever prowling, ever on the lookout for danger, finally curled up and laid down inside him, at rest now that Derek was with his safe haven.

Derek wanted to pull Stiles up, to dive into his perfect mouth again and again, worshipping his skin and memorizing every line and every contour of his body under his hands, but he was distracted by the loud, pointed clearing throat in the doorway of the bathroom.

He pulled away from Stiles, who had a dazed look on his face- _—I did that_ , Derek thought proudly—and turned to the doorway, where John and Isaac were standing, John’s face filled with amusement, Isaac’s conveying surprise. John looked at Derek, whose heart was pounding so loud that Isaac was probably getting a headache from hearing it.

“Well, son, did you bring me over here to ask for my permission to _finally_ date my kid you’ve been living with for six months?”

“ _Dad—!”_ Stiles let go of Derek’s hand and leaned back against the back of the tub again.

“‘Cause the answer’s always been yes.” Stiles’ mouth popped open. John smiled. “Derek, after you’re done kissing some sense into my kid, can you make sure he gets to the hospital for that shoulder?”

Derek smiled with relief and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Great. Isaac?” John turned his attention to Isaac and squeezed his shoulder. “How about we head to the diner for some burgers?”

Isaac nodded quickly, the two of them turning towards the front door, but not before John threw a wink at Derek.

“Veggie burger, Dad!” Stiles called after them.

Derek smiled again, listening for the door to shut and the squad car to drive away. John was okay with them dating. It wasn’t a big surprise. There’d been enough subtle hints over the last few months for Derek to get that idea, but it was still nice to get verbal confirmation. Derek turned his attention back to Stiles, who was staring at him with the softest look Derek had ever seen. It was a look that Derek had wanted to see for months—years, even—and now here it was, directed at him, and Derek almost couldn’t believe it.

“I love you too,” Stiles said. “So much.” Derek felt his ears flush with warmth, and he leaned over the edge of the tub again to press another kiss to Stiles’ mouth. Derek wanted so much to deepen the kiss, to climb into the tub and feel Stiles’ skin pressed completely against him, and, if Stiles’ hand that came up to hold the back of Derek’s neck was any indication, Stiles wanted the same.

Reluctantly, Derek pulled back, earning a whimper from Stiles that Derek wanted to match. “God, I love you, too, and I want to keep doing this. But we have to get you to the hospital.”

“Ugh, you’re so grown up and _responsible.”_ Stiles pouted as he fell back against the tub again, and then promptly winced at the pressure against his wound. Derek reached over and immediately started draining more of the pain away. Stiles sighed happily. “You’re amazing.”

Derek flushed, which made Stiles beam with a look of pride all over his face.

“Oh, I can’t wait to make you blush like that all the time. This is gonna be so much fun.”

Derek laughed. “I think the pain is making you delirious. Let’s go, Romeo.”

Derek stood and leaned over to the tub, careful not to jostle Stiles too much as he lifted him from the tub. Stiles still groaned as his body was shifted around, but soon he was cradled in Derek’s arms. Derek grabbed a towel and threw it around Stiles’ back.

“I’m gonna love the everloving shit out of you, Derek Hale.”

Derek kissed the tip of Stiles’ nose, who crinkled it in response, and then buried his face into Derek’s neck, pressing kisses there as Derek carried Stiles into his room. He put him gently on his bed, adjusting the towel around him, then searching through some drawers for some sweatpants and a button-down to throw on Stiles for the drive.

“What'd you do to my clothes?”

“They were sacrificed for a good cause.”

"I hope my balls weren't sacrificed by that damn swamp."

Derek finally found a pair of sweatpants in the overflowing dirty clothes pile and wrestled them onto a progressively unhelpful Stiles. The stress of the day was finally catching up to Stiles, and he was beginning to succumb to the exhaustion.

“The next time we’re here,” Stiles said, his voice starting to slur again, shuffling side to side while Derek pulled the pants over his hips. “I want you to be taking these off and then _doing_ _things_ to me.”

Derek’s heart began to race. Oh, the things he wanted to do to Stiles. He threaded Stiles’ right arm through the button down, then wrapped the other side over his shoulder.

“You have to get all healed up first. I have _plans,_ Stiles Stilinski.” He leaned forward, lifting Stiles back up into his arms. He pressed a kiss to Stiles’ forehead, then whispered into his ear, “So many plans.”

Stiles leaned his head into Derek’s neck again, and groaned. “Oh _fuck yes.”_

The image conjured up in Derek’s imagination with Stiles’ words and the sound of his voice made Derek weak in the knees. First, Stiles would get stitched up. Then he would heal, and then.

And then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some artistic liberties with the traditional description of a satyr. Hope I didn't offend any satyr purists out there.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments! One chapter left!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *looks up at rating*
> 
> *gives traditional, sorry-this-took-so-long apology*
> 
> *looks up at word count*
> 
> Alrighty then. Let's do this.

 

***********

_ You don't undress out of fear that your clothes will become wet. You undress because you want the water to touch you. You want to completely immerse yourself in the feeling of the water and to emerge anew.”  _

_ ― Kamand Kojouri _

************

 

_ “Oh my god, Derek Hale! _ You are killing me, for fuck’s sake!”

Derek closed Stiles’ bedroom door with a wink and a smirk, and he laughed when he heard Stiles’ shoe hit the door just after the knob clicked shut.

“See if you  _ ever _ get your dick sucked!” Stiles’ voice muffled through the closed door.

Derek rolled his eyes, then spoke through the door. “Even if I couldn’t hear your heartbeat jump, I’d know you’re lying because you’ve talked about it every day for four months.”

“Cheater!” Stiles yelled. “No werewolf powers!”

“You love me!” Derek responded with a laugh.

There was no more yelling from the other side of the door, though Derek could hear mumbling. He grinned again. Stiles wasn’t one to let Derek get the last word, so he mentally counted down from ten in his head, and sure enough, when he got to one, the door opened, Stiles standing in the doorway in boxer-briefs and a t-shirt, left arm in a sling, eyebrows pulled together in a scowl.

“I  _ do _ love you, but I’m not sure you deserve it, since you’ve left me completely orgasm-free for months.  _ Months,  _ Derek.”

“Melissa said you needed to keep your shoulder as immobile as possible, or it wouldn’t heal.”

“That’s no excuse! I can hold completely still, I assure you.”

Derek wanted to laugh in his face. Stiles’ picture was in the dictionary next to “perpetual motion”. But he had the most adorable disgruntled look on his face, Derek didn’t dare. He just raised an eyebrow, and after a momentary staring contest, Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Okay, fine. I probably can’t. But I’m  _ sure _ you could have come up with a solution that didn’t leave me perpetually blue-balled.”

“You weren’t happy with my decision to properly date you?”

Stiles opened his mouth to say something, but then shut it again and went quiet for a few moments, a wistful look descending on his features.

Derek knew the feeling. The last four months had been sex-free, yes, but they’d also been amazing. For the first time in his life, Derek had been able to properly date someone that he loved. His parents weren’t entirely on board with him dating a human with Paige, so it had been pretty secretive, and then...well,  _ dating _ wasn’t really what he did with his next several partners. He’d been determined to make up for his lack of experience by doing it right with Stiles.

He’d watched enough romantic comedies that he had a virtual arsenal of romantic moments at his disposal, and he intended to use every single one of them. It was brown M&Ms and the movie  _ Flirtation Walk _ projected onto a sheet in their backyard (thank you,  _ The Wedding Planner) _ . It was a visit to the planetarium and then a borrowed telescope from the science lab at the high school (thank you,  _ La La Land  _ and  _ A Walk to Remember). _ It was setting up a bench in the preserve just as the tulips were blooming so they could sit and read together (a la  _ Notting Hill _ ). Derek had to be creative, since Stiles had limited mobility, especially in the first month, but he took it as the really fun challenge it ended up becoming.

Not  _ all _ of their dates contained big, romantic overtures. With Stiles, something as simple as bingeing the latest TV show ( _ Brooklyn Nine-Nine _ was Stiles’ favorite so far,  _ Schitt’s Creek _ was Derek’s) became something special. There was something undeniably different about their relationship. They had a familiarity and a friendship that they always relied on, but now with an added layer of comfort and love on top of everything else. The understanding that they had seen each other at their worst allowed them the freedom to explore each other at their best.

It wasn’t all easy. Stiles was still a sarcastic little shit, and Derek was definitely an asshole. They fought and bickered the way they always did. Stiles threatened to move back in with his dad after a particularly bad argument (Derek knew  _ that _ was an empty threat—Stiles was too in love with Derek’s espresso machine to go back to the old Coffee Mate). But nothing ever weighed as heavily as it had when they were younger. In fact, their bickering and biting banter just served as a pleasant kind of foreplay, a teasing that made Derek’s heart even softer and more relaxed than it had ever been before.

Everything with Stiles was different than what he had known before. They had something Derek had seen in his own parents—a playfulness and an ease between them—something he never thought he’d have for himself. His hopes for that kind of relationship had been buried underneath layers and layers of ash. But Stiles had taken a shovel to those layers without Derek even noticing, not until the hope was already unearthed from his past like a glowing, pulsing beacon.

“I  _ guess _ it’s been okay,” Stiles reluctantly admitted, leaning forward into Derek’s space, a small smirk on his face.

Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles’ waist, careful not to jostle the sling. He tucked his head down, running his nose up the long expanse of Stiles’ throat. The stubble from his few days growth scratched against the smooth skin, and he pressed a kiss against one of the moles he passed. His breath exhaled across Stiles’ neck, and he was filled with pride at the goosebumps that erupted under his lips. “Only  _ okay?”  _ Derek asked.

Stiles’ free hand slid up Derek’s arm and went to the back of his neck, his fingers threading through the hair there, tightening a bit, holding Derek’s head still. Derek smiled against the skin beneath his lips, pressed a kiss or two more, Stiles’ barely-suppressed groan tingling against his lips. He pulled back, chuckling at Stiles’ whined protest, searching those big eyes with his own eyebrows raised.

“ _ Fine,”  _ Stiles admitted with a smirk. “It’s been...more than okay.”

Derek smiled. He wanted to dive back into that skin on his neck, to absolutely ravage the man currently pressed against him in the doorway—but they had made it this far, and he wanted to get the all-clear before doing anything more intensive. 

And by god, it was going to be  _ intensive _ .

But not yet. Not until the all-clear. 

“Hey,” Stiles added, his long fingers tucking under Derek’s chin and angling it towards his face. “I mean it. I know I complain basically every other minute, but...getting to live here and date you has been basically the best thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

Derek tightened his hold around Stiles’ waist. “Better than—”

“—yes. Better than that.”

Derek scoffed. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

Stiles shrugged with his non-slinged shoulder. “I don’t need to. Dating you has been better than everything. Every _ one.  _ Not even a contest.”

Derek tucked his smile into Stiles’ shoulder, before pressing a kiss into it. “Me, too.”

“Okay, so tomorrow I’ll get the all-clear. And then...”

“And then…” Derek trailed off, allowing one hand to drift from Stiles’ hip around to his back and slide up under the hem of his shirt, teasing the skin just above the waistband of his boxer-briefs for a moment. He then tucked his fingers inside the elastic, his eyes locked on Stiles’ lips as he teased the cleft of his ass, squeezing gently. Stiles licked his lower lip before tucking it between his teeth. Derek flicked his tongue out quickly, teasing Stiles’ lower lip before pulling back. “...then we’ll make the most of your day off.”

“Hell yes, we will,” Stiles agreed.

Derek smirked before his eye caught on Stiles’ dresser. He paused, remembering. Stiles followed his eyeline, then frowned and turned back. “Hey—that’s not gonna happen again.”

There had certainly been no plan in Derek’s mind to wait. Obviously he wasn’t going to bang Stiles when he had a hole in his shoulder, but once it was mostly healed, he figured they’d get down to business. All it had taken for Derek to change his mind was one night. It was about a month after the satyr attack, Stiles’ bandages were finally off, and physical therapy was progressing. He would usually come back from PT exhausted, spend the next 2 days using Icy Hot and wincing, but the docs were pleased with how it was going, and he had more and more energy. That night, they’d just gotten back from a really great date—a diner for curly fries, music on the jukebox, some Yakults in the Jeep afterwards (thank you,  _ To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before _ )—and when Derek dropped Stiles off at his bedroom door, he leaned in for a kiss. 

They’d kissed before—sweet, simple ones when Derek handed Stiles his coffee; sloppy, silly ones like when Derek bought Stiles a pack of those ridiculous one-pound Reese’s Cups—but  _ this _ kiss. Something about the intimacy of their conversation all night, coupled with the way Stiles looked at him in the doorway as they said goodnight, made this one different, and the moment their lips touched, something inside Derek just  _ sparked _ . He pulled Stiles close with his hands curving around Stiles’ hip bones, pulling them together as their lips moved in a desperation Derek hadn’t felt in a long time. 

Derek sucked Stiles’ lower lip between his own, a smile quirking at the edge of his mouth at the gasp he captured. Derek pressed him backward into the room until they backed into the tall dresser and Derek could feel the warmth pressed up against his entire front. Stiles’ sling was trapped between their bodies, and their legs were bracketed together, and Derek began to drown in the scent of Stiles’ skyrocketing arousal. A faint arousal scent was always present with Stiles, usually in a muted form, but in this moment, in his room, the scent was overwhelming, and Derek just wanted to deep-dive into it. He ripped his mouth from Stiles’, and dove into his neck, gasping deeply against his skin, pulling the scent into his mouth and his nose simultaneously, and he felt his knees begin to buckle.

“Smell...so good…” Derek rasped, his open mouth against the soft flesh of Stiles’ throat, his tongue tracing the vein that Derek had wanted his mouth on...well, for  _ years _ . 

“You... _ ah, fuck _ ...you feel so good, Derek.” Stiles’ voice sounded reedy, his head tilted upward to allow Derek unfettered access to his neck. Derek latched on to a sensitive spot under his ear, and Stiles keened. “ _ God, _ don’t stop.” Stiles’ free hand gripped and released on Derek’s arm, his shoulder, his neck, like he couldn’t decide the best place to grab, like Derek was overwhelming his own ability to make choices.

Derek felt Stiles hardening between them, and Derek  _ wanted it _ . He pressed into Stiles harder, rubbing their hips together until both of them released throaty groans. He did it again, and he heard things atop the dresser topple over, and heard Stiles’ gasp. One more time, Derek rutted into Stiles, bending him partially back as he lavished attention to the junction of Stiles’ neck and shoulder, and that’s when he heard it: Stiles’ barely-there whine before the sour scent of pain cut through the haze of arousal.

It took a moment before it registered, and then Derek jumped back as if he had been burned, both of them panting, and Stiles’ free hand flew to his injured shoulder, kneading and wincing. 

“Oh fuck, Stiles. I’m so sorry,” Derek huffed, his eyes wide with panic. How could he have been so stupid? It hadn’t been that long since the accident, of  _ course _ Stiles was still healing. He wasn’t ready to be thrown up against walls or manhandled.  _ God damn it. _ Derek wanted to punch himself in the face. What was he thinking?

“Hey...hey, no.” Stiles stepped into Derek’s space, putting his hand on the back of Derek’s neck. His breath was still heavy as he talked. “Don’t do that to yourself. This isn’t your fault.”

Derek shook his head. “I can’t believe I did that. You’re…and I’m...” Derek shoved his hands through his hair in agitation, surprised by how they shook and how uneven his breath seemed to be.

Stiles grabbed one of his hands and pulled it between them, holding onto it tightly. “ _ Stop it. _ I’m fine, see?” He led Derek’s hand to his injured shoulder.

Derek gently pressed onto Stiles’ injury, the other hand dropping to hold it from behind, and closed his eyes, concentrating his energy on pulling pain. His veins barely turned black for a moment before it was gone.

Stiles peered over with satisfaction. “See? I’m fine. Maybe we just...need to save the more aggressive manhandling for later.”

Derek was satisfied that Stiles wasn’t in pain, but he was still devastated that he caused it in the first place. So when Stiles leaned in for another kiss, he backed up. 

Stiles sighed audibly. “You’re not gonna touch me again, are you?”

Derek wanted to. He wanted to throw Stiles back against the dresser, pain be damned, and rut into him until they were both desperate for release. But from that point on, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t be another person in a long line of creatures who hurt Stiles. His days of slamming Stiles’ face into steering wheels was long gone.

It had been three months since that night. Stiles had told him multiple times since then that he had some kind of supernatural control. But that wasn’t it. He wanted it so much he practically purred anytime Stiles put a hand on him. It was more like Derek hadn’t trusted himself to take it easy on Stiles once they started things up. He overwhelmed Derek every day with his goodness, his loyalty, his ability to love so easily. And when they finally got down to it, Derek wanted to overwhelm him right back. He wasn’t good at words. He wanted to leave marks all over Stiles’ skin, to take him apart over and over before slowly kissing him back together.

Derek tore his eyes from the dresser, from the reminder of when he had hurt Stiles. “You have to swear you’ll tell me if I hurt you.”

“Derek,” Stiles’ voice was soft, and he leaned in to press a gentle kiss onto Derek’s forehead. “You’ve taken care of me better than anyone else could have. Even my Dad bowed to your TLC abilities. It’s been months since we got carried away. I’m _fine_ now. You’ll see.” Stiles half-smiled and wiggled his ass minutely, reminding Derek where his hand still rested, tucked in his waistband.

“I barely need the sling anymore,” Stiles continued. “I’ve been using my arm as much as I can, even with your adorable hovering, and haven’t even had the remotest twinge of pain. Last appointment, doc said I was a ‘model for improvement’.” Stiles looked him in the eyes. “I love you and your concern. I know you won’t hurt me. I  _ know _ it. But I promise to tell you.”

Derek searched Stiles’ eyes, listening carefully, but his face showed nothing but earnestness, and his heart didn’t betray him, either. Derek exhaled slowly, and reluctantly pulled his hand out of Stiles’ boxer-briefs, snapping the band teasingly against his skin, before kissing the tip of his nose.

“Okay. Goodnight, Stiles.”

“Goodnight, you sexy beast.”

Derek went back to his room and closed the door. He could hear Stiles puttering around, getting his toothbrush, typing on his computer. It was soothing for Derek to hear. Derek got himself ready and laid down in bed.

His mind immediately began wandering. Would he be able to trust himself with Stiles? Derek was powerful—more so these days since he was training with Scott and the rest of the pack on a regular basis. But Stiles was still human—still fragile—and to Derek, he felt so easily breakable. Stiles had endured so much more than seemed reasonably possible for a human, not just with his physical body, but in his soul. Stiles didn’t talk a lot about the demon that took over his body, but Derek still knew the pain was there—he could hear it in the middle of the night when Stiles would thrash around in his nightmares. Realistically, Stiles was a fragile human, but was about ten thousand times stronger than Derek would ever be. 

He couldn’t get his mind to rest. The worry combined with the anticipation made him toss and turn. He wanted to go in and sleep with Stiles. He knew that wouldn’t work tonight, though. They were both too keyed up. 

They  _ had _ slept together before though, several times . The first time it had been the anniversary of Stiles’ mom’s death. He’d had a couple of glasses of wine at dinner, which was enough to get him a little more emotional than normal. They talked that night for a couple of hours; Stiles reminiscing about his mom, about silly things they had shared together, some of his most treasured memories. When Stiles went to bed, it was with tears in his eyes, and he had asked Derek if he’d stay with him until he fell asleep. 

“No funny business, I swear.”

They had laid on Stiles’ bed face-to-face, their legs eventually tangling together. Derek’s right hand brushed the tears away from Stiles’ face before settling it on the mattress between them.

“I’m just really sad she never got to meet you,” Stiles said softly. His hand lifted, and he tangled his fingers with Derek’s. “I think she really would have liked you.” 

Derek lifted their tangled fingers and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of Stiles’ hand. “I think the feeling would have been mutual.” 

They had laid together for a while, Derek listening to the slowing of Stiles’ heartbeat, drawing comfort from its steady rhythm, and just as Derek could have sworn he was asleep, Stiles whispered a request for a bedtime story. With a smile, Derek told Stiles a story his mom had told him when he was young, about a little boy who got lost in the woods, who was rescued by a wolf as dark as a midnight sky. The story of a wolf who took care of the boy until they could find the way home. A story of a wolf who realized his home was with the boy all along. Stiles had fallen asleep with a gentle smile on his face, and Derek had never left, falling asleep to the sound of Stiles’ heartbeat.

Derek drifted to sleep again with the memory, listening to the rhythm of Stiles’ heartbeat across the house, faint yet steady, and he knew, as he had known that night, that he’d never leave Stiles alone again, for his home was with his boy.

After that night, when they’d both woken up the next morning more rested than they had been in a long time, they realized that they might be onto something. Sleeping with Stiles had proven to be one of the best sleep-aids he had ever found.  Stiles had trouble falling asleep, and his nightmares were violent and visceral. Sleeping with Derek had kept them at bay for the first time since he had left Lydia. The thought of Stiles’ nightmares had always set Derek on edge, but now he knew the feelings between them were mutual, it was really hard to keep his distance when Stiles was struggling so violently. He  _ could _ fall asleep without Stiles, but it usually involved an hour of tossing and turning and telling his wolf to “shut the fuck up already”. Many times he had to full shift into his wolf and lie outside Stiles’ door until the morning. It was embarrassing, and he had always made sure to be back in his room before Stiles came out. 

This night, Derek tried for a long time to fall asleep, but finally gave up and shifted, curling himself into a ball in front of Stiles’ door, head on his paws. He could smell Stiles’ scent through the crack at the bottom of the door, which combined with the steady drum of Stiles’ heartbeat, eventually helped him drift off to sleep.

The routines they had established over the last few months made each morning like a choreographed dance, the morning of the final appointment no exception. Stiles fixed the coffee and got his kitchen office set up for the day while Derek made breakfast (eggs today, but sometimes pancakes or french toast), Stiles bringing him ingredients as he needed them, before they sat down together and Stiles read the latest news out loud from his phone while Derek did the morning crossword with the occasional help from Stiles (Derek learned not to let Stiles get the paper first—he’d finish the crossword before Derek even got to look at it). Once, Isaac had come into town for a few days to visit, staying with Derek like he usually did (though his room was permanently occupied now, and his new place was on the couch, to his great disdain) and after witnessing their routine two days in a row, officially announced that he would stay with “literally anyone else” from then on because watching them “was nauseatingly domestic and it made him want to vomit.”

This morning, there was an underlying tension and anticipation to their movements, and their usual fluidity was marred by bumping into each other and near-spills. Stiles’ smirking made Derek think he was possibly doing it on purpose. They finally got ready to leave (both of them taking an extra-long time to shower), and Stiles was almost out the door before Derek called out.

“Put your sling on.”

Stiles groaned. “Again? Seriously?”

“Every day, Stiles.” 

“We’re literally on our way to the appointment where they’ll tell me I never have to use it again.”

“They haven’t told you that yet. Put your sling on.”

Stiles smirked in response. Derek knew that look. They’d been having a version of this argument almost every day, but that look in Stiles’ eyes? Was definitely from the memory of their  _ first _ argument about it.

They’d been leaving for a checkup, and Stiles had been trying to sneak out of the house without the sling. Derek grabbed it from the back of the couch and had called out to him, “Put your sling on.”

“It’s been three weeks since the accident, Derek. I’m good.”

“The doctor said you might feel fine, but the sling keeps your movement restricted. Put your sling on.”

Stiles had huffed and grabbed the sling out of Derek’s hands. “Okay, no more coming to doctor appointments with me.”

“I don’t think so. You’ll conveniently  _ forget _ everything he said by the time you get home, and then put your recovery back even longer by trying to do stuff you shouldn’t. Put it on.”

“Ugh! Fine,  _ dad.”  _ Stiles had roughly pulled the sling over his arm, grumbling and complaining (and wincing) the whole time. 

Derek rolled his eyes, but smiled when Stiles had it all adjusted, his arm tucked safely away. Stiles had looked up at him as if to say  _ okay? _

Derek nodded back at him, satisfied. “And don’t call me dad.” Derek knew that Stiles was frustrated. He might be cranky about Derek’s commitment to the rules, but also he’d be happy when he was able to get his sling off faster. Stiles definitely wasn’t someone content to sit on the sidelines and not be active, so he needed the accountability for the doctor’s rules. If there was anything Derek could do well, it was be a hardass about the rules.

But instead of leaving, Stiles had taken a few steps toward Derek, moving forward until they were toe-to-toe, and walked his fingers up Derek’s front, before pulling slightly on his collar.

“What if I call you... _ daddy _ ?” Stiles had said that last word with lidded eyes, pressed up against Derek’s front, and Derek couldn’t help it. He had felt the heat creep all the way up his neck and around his ears. Stiles had noticed and pulled upright for a moment, assessing, before a shit-eating grin broke over his face.

“Put it on the list?”

Derek had cleared his throat, but his voice still sounded strangled. “Put it on the list.”

Stiles had gone immediately back into the bedroom, a bounce in his step, to a notepad on his bedside table, and opened it up to the first page where “Acceptable Kinks” was written in big letters across the top. He scrawled on the page before closing it again and putting it back on the table.

When he had come back, Derek had felt his face still aflame, which Stiles seemed to take an endless amount of joy from seeing. “Daddy kink, huh? I’m into it.”

Derek still hadn’t analyzed it all properly. There was probably something there about his wolf loving the idea of being seen as an authority, or a provider, or something. But honestly, he didn’t want to deep-dive into the psychology of it too much. He just knew that when Stiles called him that, he liked it. He liked it a lot.

“Hey, Derek?  _ Derek!” _

“Huh?” Derek was wrenched from his daydream and realized that he was frozen in the middle of putting on his jacket, totally distracted with the memory. Stiles was standing at the front door, sling on, keys dangling in hand. When Derek blinked over at him, he rolled his eyes at Stiles’ grin.

“You were remembering me calling you Daddy, weren’t you?” 

Derek stumbled for a moment with his jacket, and flushed. “Shut up.”

“Ooh, look at you, all flustered. This is gonna be  _ fun. _ ” Stiles smirked and pulled open the front door, his laughter trailing him out to the car.

The drive to the doctor’s office was quiet—if you could call Stiles belting out “No Tears Left To Cry” at the top of his lungs  _ quiet _ . His legs were bouncing around in the seat, the belt barely containing his energy. Derek could sense it, too, his fingers twitching on the wheel, an extra amount of concentration needed to make sure he didn’t speed and catch the eye of the Sheriff’s cruisers.

Once at the office, they were ushered into the room where Stiles’ vitals were taken, and then the doctor came in to ask how Stiles was feeling. He prodded at the scar tissue, made Stiles do full rotations with his arm. He asked about any medications Stiles was still taking, any issues he had that lingered too long after physical therapy.

Finally, he smiled. “Congratulations, Stiles. You have healed incredibly well, which I think we can both agree is because of your commitment to your recovery.” Stiles turned and grinned at Derek at those words. “You’re approved for full activities. Continue with the physical therapy once a month, and keep doing the stretches and strength exercises as much as you can—they will only help you. Come back and see me in six months.”

Stiles beamed. “No more sling?”

The doctor nodded, and Derek heard Stiles’ heart beat triple-time. “No more sling.”

“See ya, doc.” 

The doctor laughed as Stiles practically jumped off the exam table and dragged Derek out of the exam room. Something about that action woke something up in Derek’s wolf. His nose flared, his ears perked up, and he felt himself diving into the predator instinct. Stiles was walking quickly to the car, barely passing a goodbye to the from staff, and Derek was completely zeroed into Stiles’ rapid heartbeat, the scent of arousal that his wolf was tracking with intense focus.

“How fast do you think you can drive this—oof—”

Stiles was cut off because Derek flipped him around and pressed his entire body against Stiles, pushing him roughly back against the car. Derek tucked his face under Stiles’ chin, nudging until Stiles’ head tipped back with a groan. Stiles’ hands flew to the back of Derek’s head and held him still, and the hitched whine that burst from Stiles’ mouth when Derek licked a wet stripe along the column of his throat was enough to have his wolf yipping with delight. Stiles’ hips twitched instinctively, and Derek crowded them against the car with his own, his erection just coming to life, but wakening faster with the friction against Stiles’ khakis.

“ _ Fuck, _ Derek,” Stiles’ voice was breathless in his ear. He turned and captured Derek’s mouth in a drugging kiss that made Derek’s eyes roll back in his head—or that could have been from the way the zipper in Stiles’ khakis was pressing against him  _ just _ right. Derek couldn’t be sure, because his head was swimming in Stiles’ scent.

Stiles put his hands on Stiles’ shoulders and pressed hard, extending his arms and creating space between the two of them. Stiles was panting heavily, his cheeks flushed with a gorgeous cherry glow. His scent had blossomed into something warm and sweet, and Derek wanted to crowd back into it, but the slight distance also did wonders for the clarity in Derek’s mind, and he realized, suddenly, that they were making out in the middle of a parking lot. There was an old lady three cars down staring at them, a scandalized expression on her face.

Right. Get home.  _ Then _ ravage Stiles.

Derek walked around the car on slightly shaky legs. Before he got in, he took a couple of deep, steadying breaths. When he turned to face the car, he saw Stiles was doing the same thing. They smirked at each other before getting in the car. Derek peeled out of the parking lot, Stiles laughing at the old lady who looked scandalized yet again. 

On the way home, Stiles was buzzing. He couldn’t seem to get comfortable in the seat, shifting and moving around, lacing his fingers together and then pulling his cuticles into his mouth. Derek placed his hand on Stiles’ knee, and Stiles squeaked.

“Stiles, you have to calm down.”

“Calm down,” he said incredulously, turning to face Derek. “ _ Calm down? _ This is better than Christmas for me, I’m not sure how you expect me to calm down.”

Derek slowed the car to a stop at a stop sign, then leaned over the console and kissed Stiles, his left hand anchoring itself on the side of Stiles’ neck. Stiles let out a high whimper, which seemed to send a lightning rod straight to Derek’s dick. He certainly wasn’t intending to have a full make-out session at the stop sign, but it was like that press of their lips together in the parking lot had started an engine inside Derek’s libido, and every noise and gasp from Stiles just revved that engine a little bit more. Stiles was just pressing himself back into the kiss when his phone interrupted, the insistent buzzing tickling underneath their arms on the console. Stiles groaned and pulled back reluctantly to glance down at the screen, then held the phone up for Derek to see the Sheriff’s picture. 

“I swear, Dad has a radar for when we’re making out.”

Derek took a deep breath to regain himself, and then pulled away from the stop sign, continuing on the drive back to the house. It was probably better that they were interrupted anyway, no sense in getting even more carried away. Their first time was  _ not  _ going to be in his car.

Another time, for sure. But not their first.

Stiles pressed a button on the screen to answer, then hit the speakerphone button.

Just as Stiles started talking, Derek slid his hand up the inseam of Stiles’ pants, and squeezed down on his upper thigh, causing Stiles’ voice to leap. “Daaaa—aaad!”

“Stiles? You alright?”

Stiles clamped his own hand down on top of Derek’s to halt its progress upwards, and the look on Stiles’ face made Derek want to laugh. “Dad, dad, daddy-o.”

_ Smooth _ , Derek mouthed to Stiles with a wink. Stiles stuck out his tongue.

“Hey there, son, just checking on how the visit with the doctor went.”

“Yeah, dad, I’m all clear. Doc says I have full mobility, so no more sling.” 

“Oh, that’s great. Rafael will be happy to have you back in the office.”

“Yeah, I can’t wait to get back, too.” Stiles slowly squeezed Derek’s hand, and Derek felt him slide himself down a little in the seat so that Derek’s hand conveniently slid up his inseam again. So close. Derek started moving his fingers back and forth, his pinky just barely grazing where he wanted to explore most. Stiles sighed and widened his knees, his head dropping against the back of the passenger seat. “I have some cases that I need to get my hands on again.”

“I bet,” John continued, as Derek struggled to maintain concentration as he felt Stiles begin to harden in his pants. Stiles’ hand loosened to rest on Derek’s wrist. Derek continued moving his fingers, holding himself back from moving them to where he really wanted to explore. He just teased, the pads of his fingers running up and down the inseam. John’s voice continued, and Derek had to really concentrate to hear it, wanting instead to focus on the hitching of Stiles’ breath. “Four months is a long time to be out of the office. Hope they haven’t forgotten about ya, kid. Hey, I wanted to ask, do you want to meet up for a celebratory dinner tonight? My treat.” At those words, Stiles suddenly squeezed his fingers back around Derek’s hand, freezing him in place. 

“Tonight?” Stiles choked out. “Umm...well, tonight, that’s...umm…” 

Stiles looked over at Derek, clearly searching for a safer parental excuse than  _ I plan on boning my boyfriend for the next 42 hours, Dad, sorry I can’t make dinner _ . 

Derek smiled at Stiles’ despair and reluctantly pulled his hand off Stiles’ leg. He then waved in a placating gesture, silently telling Stiles  _ I’ve got this. _ Stiles visibly relaxed.

“Hey there, Sheriff,” Derek directed his voice to the phone, keeping his eyes on the road. 

“Oh, hey Derek! You guys free for dinner tonight? I was thinking a nice steakhouse. Really pull out all the stops.”

“Ooh, you know I love a good steak.” Derek said with a smile. He looked at Stiles. “Sure, tonight sounds great—” 

Stiles squawked and hastily straightened in the seat, fumbling with the phone and pressing the mute button.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Stiles asked incredulously.

Derek shrugged. “Your dad is offering to take us out to eat! I figured you’d be all about the quality time and the free food.”

“ _ Derek _ .”

“What? It’s steak!”

“I swear to fucking god, you’d better be fucking with me. You  _ know _ what we’re doing the rest of the day, and for you to even suggest—”

Derek was biting down on the inside of his cheek so hard to avoid laughing, he was sure there’d be teeth marks. Stiles finally noticed, because he reached over and shoved Derek’s shoulder has hard as he could, which just made Derek burst out his barely-contained laughter.

“Just for that,  _ you _ get to explain to my dad why we aren’t coming.”

Derek chuckled and smirked at the road. “Oh, now we  _ aren’t _ coming?”

“Oh, we’re going to be  _ coming _ . We’re going to be coming so much my brain will probably end up leaking out of my dick. But my dad will have  _ nothing _ to do with it.”

“Umm...boys?” John’s tinny voice erupted from the speaker.

Stiles’ eyes went wide yet again and he stared down at the phone in his hand—which no longer had the mute button indicated.

Stiles winced. “How much of that did you hear?”

There was a throat clearing over the line. “More than I needed to. How about you tell me when it’s safe to call again.”

Stiles’ voice was barely audible. “Sure thing, Pops.”

“Good luck, Derek.”

Derek barely managed a “Thank you,” through his laughter before Stiles pressed the end call button and dropped the phone to the floor and had his face in his hands, groaning. Derek put his hand on Stiles’ shoulder and squeezed.

“Don’t worry, Stiles. I’m sure he’ll forget this by the time dinner comes around.”

Stiles’ voice was muffled by his hands. “God, I hate you so much right now.”

“Do you now?” Derek smiled and pulled one of Stiles’ hands down, bringing it to his mouth and kissing the back of it gently. 

“So much,” Stiles sighed. Derek held onto Stiles’ hand and rested his arm on the console, their fingers threaded together. Derek’s hands were wide, but Stiles’ fingers wrapped so neatly around them. Thinking of what he could do with those fingers made Derek’s mouth go dry.

The rest of the drive home was more subdued, Derek still chuckling internally at the phone call. God, he loved teasing Stiles, and wasn’t that just utterly refreshing? The sense of levity in their relationship was such a stark contrast to everything he had known before. It actually reminded him of life before the fire. Of the teasing and the sarcasm and the love that ran as an undercurrent for everything they did together as a Hale family. He and Laura were masters at getting each other into trouble, “hating” each other all day, and then spending the evening curled up under a blanket watching a movie like nothing ever happened. He and Cora  _ still _ teased each other relentlessly, but no one had his back faster than she did, no matter what happened. 

Derek pulled into the driveway and looked over at Stiles, who was staring up at the house with intent. Derek’s nostrils were filled with the scent of his nervousness, the tartness slowly getting more potent the longer they sat.

“Ready?” Derek asked tentatively, his thumb sliding across the back of Stiles’ hand. Stiles squeezed back before looking over.

“Oh yeah.”

Stiles leaned forward, and Derek met him halfway, his heart melting with the gentle kiss that they exchanged over the console. Stiles was still oozing nervousness, and Derek slid his hands to Stiles’ neck to hold him steady. Derek loved the press of Stiles’ lips against his, the slightly chapped texture creating a delicious tug and pull between them. Derek took Stiles bottom lip between his own, his tongue gently sliding against the captured flesh. Stiles’ soft sigh egged Derek on for more. Stiles grabbed the front of Derek’s shirt, twisting his fingers into the fabric. Derek could feel himself slipping, falling into the passion of the kiss between them. He wanted to drown in it, to be surrounded by the scent and the heat.

He pulled back, his hand still stroking Stiles’ cheek, feeling the warmth that had bloomed under his thumb. Stiles’ eyes remained closed, deep breaths pulling between moist lips, and Derek marveled at the peaceful look on his face. The nervousness was a dull tartness now, buried underneath the arousal that pulsed with every heartbeat.

Derek stepped out of the car, Stiles following as they went inside. As soon as Derek closed the door, he felt himself pushed against it, Stiles pulling on his jacket to turn him around and press his back against the door. Derek didn’t have time to be surprised before his mouth was covered again, Stiles using those long fingers to press against his chest and up around his neck.

_ Yes _ , Derek thought. He was the bigger, the stronger, the more agile between the two of them, but as Stiles’ skilled mouth moved against his own, all he could think was how he would so easily give up every ounce of power and place it in Stiles’ hands without question. He hadn’t been able to trust anyone for so long, but he felt nothing but safety in Stiles’ arms, felt taken care of and protected as Stiles took what he wanted from Derek. 

_ Yes, Stiles. Take me apart. Make me yours. I’m yours. _

“You know,” Stiles managed to breathe into Derek’s lips, his voice scratching out between kisses. “I gotta apologize.”

Derek’s hands were around Stiles’ waist, fingers pressing into his lower back. “Apologize for what?”

“I’m going to last,” Stiles said into Derek’s neck, nipping and licking at the stubble, “about 45 seconds.”

Derek chuckled. He knew the feeling. Everything felt more intense than it ever had—probably because they could finally let go. Stiles pulled off Derek’s jacket, dropping it somewhere to the side. His hands dropped to Derek’s waist and rucked up his shirt to his armpits. He looked down, his eyes roaming over Derek’s torso, and he suddenly groaned. “God, where do I even  _ start? _ ”

Derek shuddered as Stiles hungrily ran his hands down his chest and his stomach, feather-light, his eyes wide and drinking in Derek’s every movement. When his hands trailed back up, and fingernails scraped gently over his nipples, Derek’s head dropped back against the door, a guttural moan torn from his chest.

“ _ Jesus Christ, _ Stiles. I’m—” He lost all train of thought when Stiles latched on to his nipple with his mouth and sucked. Hard. Derek’s hand flew to the back on his head and tried not to let his claws extend. “ _ Nnngh... _ not gonna last, either.”  
  
Stiles wrapped one hand around Derek’s hip, the other trailing to the front of his jeans. He tucked his fingers in the waistband, and Derek’s hips jerked with the feel of Stiles’ skin just under his navel. Stiles released his nipple and panted, “Can I, Derek? Please?”

Derek couldn’t manage words. Not when he was overwhelmed like this. He’d whine or squeak, or something equally embarrassing. He was a former Alpha werewolf, for god’s sake, and Stiles was undoing him with just his mouth and the hint of more. He could only nod his head, his hands grasping awkwardly in Stiles’ hair, around the collar of his shirt. How was Stiles still wearing so many clothes? How was  _ he _ ? He felt naked and raw and yet the only thing he’d lost was his jacket.

He felt Stiles smile against his chest and his hands went to Derek’s waist, fumbling and stumbling with the button and the zipper, his eagerness making his movements awkward.

Finally, Stiles opened the zipper and pushed on the waistband of his jeans, only just managing to get them down just over his hips. “Goddamn your tight jeans. I love them every moment but  _ right now.  _ Fuck it.”

Stiles gave up trying to push down any further, instead diving his hand roughly into the front of Derek’s jeans and wrapping his long fingers around his length, and  _ holy shit. _

“So hard,  _ fuck,”  _ Stiles rasped, his hand trapped between their bodies and the jeans, and still working at Derek’s nipple with his teeth and his tongue, and Derek didn’t even know what to do with his hands at this point. He wanted Stiles to slow down but he also wanted him to speed up, to keep overwhelming him with the gasps and the noises and  _ his scent _ , Jesus Christ. Derek’s hips started moving of their own accord, barely ramping up the friction against the hand wrapped around his length, and it felt like too much all of a sudden. His hands grasped onto Stiles, anywhere he could hold on, and his gaze flew to the ceiling and everything was heavier and brighter and he felt Stiles’ forehead on his chest, like he was just watching his hand and Derek’s dick, and before Derek could even register, he felt the tension build and spill and he was coming, onto Stiles’ hand and up his torso and he felt the reverberation from his deep groan in the door against his back.

“Fuck, Derek. That was... _ fuck. _ ”

Derek was panting and staring at the ceiling, trying to get his bearings. It was only a messy handjob, but he felt like he’d run a marathon. Stiles slowly pulled his hand out from between their bodies, and Derek looked down to see Stiles begin to fumble with his own zipper. His wolf shook off his haze enough to launch him into action. It was harder to move with his jeans trapped low on his hips, but he managed to spin them around, pulling Stiles’ flannel off of his shoulders just before his back hit the door. Derek pulled the shirt off of his arms and tossed it aside, setting his sights on the t-shirt that was in the way of Derek’s view of miles of perfect skin. He grabbed the hem of the shirt and ripped it over Stiles’ head before diving his nose into Stiles’ throat, scenting and nipping and licking every inch he could. His hands pulled Stiles’ hands up and out of the way of his zipper to place them on his shoulders instead, and Derek slowly dropped to his knees, leaving a hot path along Stiles’ torso and down his stomach on the way, his hot breath mixing on Stiles’ skin with the trail from his tongue. Stiles’ heartbeat was rabbiting fast, and when Derek unfastened the button on his khakis, it seemed to beat even harder.

Derek opened up the waistband and yanked down the pants, Stiles’ dick straining against the thin cotton fabric of his boxer-briefs. He stared up at Stiles, across the miles of pale, mole-spotted skin, where his head was leaned back against the door, the column of his throat catching the light drifting in from the window on the door. There was so much to explore, so many places Derek wanted to map out, to see which places were soft, which places were ticklish, which places elicited noises like the one Stiles strangled out when Derek placed a soft kiss on his hip bone.

“You…” Stiles breathed, “...don’t have to— _ oh fuck.” _

Stiles’ words were cut off when Derek pressed his nose right against his dick and took a deep inhale. Derek’s head swam with the thick arousal that flooded his nostrils. He mouthed at the fabric, the scent becoming stronger as it passed over his tongue with his deep inhales. 

“Smell...so good…” Derek pulled the waistband of Stiles’ boxer briefs down over the tip of his dick, and Derek caught it in his mouth as he pulled them the rest of the way down. Derek looked up to see Stiles looking back down at him, his mouth open and panting. Derek slowly pulled Stiles’ length into his mouth, keeping his eyes trained on Stiles’ face, who seemed to be completely astounded at what was happening. The pleasure made his head fall back, but then he’d catch himself and look back down at Derek like he couldn’t believe it. His hands scrambled against the door before one latched onto the handle and his grip white-knuckled, the other grabbing the side of Derek’s face.

Derek wanted to watch Stiles’ face, wanted to see him fall completely apart, but the scent and the taste were too much, and Derek couldn’t slow down. He sank down on Stiles’ length until he couldn’t take in any more, ran his tongue up and down the vein on the underside, the skin velvety against his tongue. He sucked and pulled back, the loud cry from Stiles causing him to pause and check for pain.

“Yes, please.  _ Yes _ ,” Stiles moaned.

It was all the encouragement Derek needed. He slid up and down Stiles’ dick, turning his head slightly on the next pass down to take him a little deeper, and Stiles’ hand clenched on the side of his head. Derek felt him tugging back on his hair, signaling for him to pull off, but Derek only sucked harder, sheathing his teeth and diving his head up and down. With a groan Stiles came, shooting deep into Derek’s throat, and Derek pulled him deeper, sucking and drawing Stiles’ pleasure out with moans of his own.

_ Holy shit. _ He wanted to do that every day of forever.

Stiles collapsed forward against Derek’s shoulder, breathing hard, and Derek swallowed thickly and pulled off, resting his forehead against Stiles’ hip and breathing hard himself.

“God damn,” Stiles muttered.

Derek stood up, tucking Stiles back into his boxers before leaning in, his arms bracketing Stiles against the door. “Yeah?”

“Mmm…that was fucking  _ hot. _ ” Stiles’ eyes were partially closed, a small smile forming on his face. Derek leaned in and kissed him gently, his hand coming up to rest on Stiles’ face. He loved feeling the heat on Stiles’ skin, the regulating of his heartbeat under his palm.

After a moment, Stiles added, “It’s truly unfair that you look like  _ this _ , and you can do  _ that _ like  _ that. _ ”

Derek grinned. “Umm...you saw what you did to me, right?”

Stiles lifted his hand, which was still partially coated with Derek’s come. “Yeah, I did.”

Derek preened at the sight of his come on Stiles’ skin, drying and saturating their scents together. “I’d say sorry, but…”

Stiles chuckled. “But you’re not.” Derek smiled at that and leaned in, rubbing his nose along Stiles’ jaw. He loved their combined scents on Stiles’ hand, but he wanted it everywhere. Stiles marched in place, pulling his shoes and pants off at the doorway and kicking them aside.

Stiles let out a little sigh, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck. “Take me to bed, or lose me forever.”

Derek wrapped his arms under Stiles’ ass and lifted him up, his arms supporting under Stiles’ thighs and his hands holding firmly onto Stiles’ ass, the thin fabric of his boxer-briefs only a mere hint of a barrier to Derek’s imagination. Stiles’ chest was now pressed against him. and Derek growled playfully, “Show me the way home, honey.”

Stiles laughed as Derek carried him into his room, unceremoniously dropping him on Derek’s bed. Stiles bounced a little and crawled backward, his eyes on Derek as he kicked off his shoes and pulled off his jeans (Stiles was right—they were stupidly tight). As Derek was pulling off his shirt, he heard Stiles shuffle around with the sheets and then he cried out.

“You  _ didn’t!” _

Derek threw his shirt to the side, an ear-splitting grin on his face.

Stiles was staring down at Derek’s king-sized bed, the comforter thrown back to reveal a set of black sheets. This wasn’t uncommon, Derek’s decorating sense extending to the colors of white, black, and gray. What  _ was _ uncommon were the white Tie Fighters among the star print, Stiles’ fingers skimming over the sheets reverently.

“Surprise,” Derek said softly.

“You...you put Star Wars sheets on your bed.”

Derek shrugged. “I wanted you to feel welcome in here.”

Stiles sat back on his heels and looked at Derek with fondness. “I always feel that way. This is my home.”

Derek felt his ears get hot, and his wolf sit up with pride. All his wolf wanted was to be seen as a good provider, a good protector. To hear Stiles say it made him feel a rush of pride he hadn’t felt in a long time. He walked to the edge of the bed, standing with his knees just pressing against the edge. Stiles shuffled over on his knees and wrapped his arms around Derek’s waist, ducking his head under Derek’s chin and hugging him close. Stiles’ ear was pressed against his chest, and he could feel Stiles’ warm breath tickling his skin.

“ I came back to this town a broken person, and you never expected anything from me. You just supported me, helped me get back on my feet. You didn’t tell me I was stupid, or insane for leaving Lydia, or...I don’t know. I just...I always felt like I was enough for you.”

Derek wanted to drop to the floor right there and weep. Ever since Stiles had returned, boosting his self-worth and making him feel secure in Derek’s love was all he had wanted. And by making sure Stiles was taken care of, Derek had been taken care of, too. It was this mutual healing experience that he figured few would understand. Stiles probably had no idea of the extent of how those words affected him. But he knew that Stiles would hate having acknowledgment of his own insecurities, so instead, Derek chuckled. “No, when you exploded the flour all over my kitchen, I  _ definitely _ called you stupid.”

Stiles pulled back. “Hey—that bag had it out for me.”

Derek pulled him back into a hug, his hands spanning the skin on Stiles’ back. He began to trail them up and down, feeling the mottled skin on his shoulder from the wendigo, another on the opposite shoulder from the satyr. He felt the bumps from the moles along his spine, the tiny line scar on his neck from the kanima. He was marked all over, from all of his brushes with danger and death, and Derek knew that the scars that went the deepest couldn’t be felt from the outside. Derek kissed along Stiles’ collarbone, his fingers continuing their mesmerizing patterns. He wanted to mark Stiles further still, to cover the ones that indicated danger with ones that indicated that he was loved and cared for and protected.

It didn’t take long for the tart scent of nerves to begin again.

Derek spoke softly into the goosebumped flesh of Stiles’ shoulder. “You alright?"

Stiles’ fingers on Derek’s hips clenched. “Yeah, I’m...I’m just nervous? I’ve...never done this before. I mean...I’ve  _ wanted _ to, and I—I’ve done some stuff on my own, but...I’ve never—no one has...”

Derek barely stifled a groan. To think he’d be the first to feel Stiles in this way, to light him up from the inside like this? He felt the eager stirrings in his groin again, his dick definitely on board with the idea.

“I’ll take care of you,” Derek assured.

“You’ve done this before, right?”

Derek nodded. “In New York. But...I wasn’t in a good place then. And...never—” His voice caught in his throat, the reality of his words hitting him hard. He thought of nameless faces, of searching for meaning when nothing made sense, and of his own unquenchable pain. He swallowed thickly before continuing, “—never with someone I love.”

Stiles pulled back again, but this time he put his hands on both sides of Derek’s face. “Then let’s do this right.”

“Okay,” Derek agreed. “How...how do you want me?”

Stiles’ thumbs traced back and forth on Derek’s cheeks, his eyes searching. When he finally managed to speak, his voice was strained. “You’d really...?”

It definitely wasn’t something he’d considered in past relationships. He was the wolf. His wolf’s instinct was to dominate, to take. But when he thought about lying underneath Stiles, watching Stiles chase his pleasure and himself remaining completely vulnerable? He nodded. Yes, he wanted that. He’d do that with Stiles in a heartbeat.

“Wow,” Stiles breathed. “Okay, filing that mental image away. Umm...this time, will you fuck me? I...I need—”

The thought of it threatened to send Derek reeling to the floor again, but instead he nodded and walked around the side of the bed, bending down to get the lube out of his bedside table. He pulled off his boxer briefs and tossed them into the corner laundry basket, and just as he stood up, Stiles came up behind him and wrapped his arms around Derek’s torso. His hands splayed wide over his chest, tickling the trimmed hair. He pressed his body up against Derek’s back, and began laying kisses on Derek’s tattoo, across his shoulders. He nudged his nose into the crevice of Derek’s arm, trailing kisses down his triceps, nudging and kissing and scraping his teeth gently all the way. Derek put his hands down, holding onto the front of Stiles’ thighs, and then sliding his palms around the back and pulling him forward. Derek felt Stiles’ hardness press along his ass, and yes, Derek wanted that. 

Stiles continued the tantalizing patterns he was drawing on Derek’s chest, feeling along muscle lines and causing Derek’s stomach to twitch and jerk. He circled Derek’s nipples and tugged on them to make Derek groan. Stiles seemed intent on tracing his fingers along Derek’s v-lines, feather-light at first, and then, when Derek pulled Stiles’ hips forward so they were pressed together, Stiles’ fingers became more focused, tracing the line on his hip further south. His mouth was sucking patterns on his shoulders and his hands—god, his hands. One wrapped around Derek’s length, the other slid up to circle his nipples, and Derek dropped his head forward, unable to keep himself from watching.

All the pack meetings where Stiles would gesture wildly. All the nights in the kitchen with Stiles cutting vegetables or rolling cookies. All the times he twirled a pen in his hands while working on a case. Every time, Derek had imagined  _ this _ . His long, stealthy fingers wrapped around his dick, taking him in hand firmly but gently, using practiced motions to bring Derek to full hardness. Derek’s hips were moving of their own accord at this point, small jerks that heightened the friction and doubled the pleasure.

“Is that good?” Stiles’ voice was muffled, his mouth pressed into the triskele on Derek’s back.

“Mmm... _ so _ good.” Stiles twisted his wrist on the stroke, and Derek’s toes curled into the shag rug beneath his feet. He felt so hard, and Stiles’ hand was magical, making him harder every moment, harder than he thought possible. “S-s—so good Stiles.”

Derek fumbled his hands, grasping at Stiles’ thighs before moving up to grasp his ass, holding him firmly against his back. He felt Stiles pressing forward, creating friction, and Derek loved the tension of Stiles’ muscles in his hands.

Soon, Stiles’ skill with his hands proved to be too much. Derek was going to come again, and while he had pretty good stamina as a wolf, coming three times in an hour was probably too much even for his body to manage.

“Stiles.  _ Too _ good.” Derek pulled Stiles’ hands away from his dick and turned in his arms. Stiles’ face was gloriously flushed, and Derek was sure he wasn’t much better—he was panting. He wrapped his arms around Stiles and kissed him, their lips moving together in filthy patterns, tongues exploring each other’s mouths. Derek poured his heart out into the kiss, wanting Stiles to feel cherished, to  _ know _ that no one would ever be as important to Derek as he was. 

Derek loved the feel of Stiles’ fingers in his hair, scritching along his scalp and pulling on his hair. He loved feeling along Stiles’ hip bones and around to his ass, kneading the flesh and pulling him forward so that their dicks rubbed deliciously together. It was just on the edge of painful—the lack of lube was definitely a disadvantage—but the feel of his skin against Stiles’ was worth it. Their hips matched the motion of their tongues in a sloppy, sensual dance, one that Derek would be content to continue for a long time, if his dick wasn’t so insistent that they move this along. Stiles reached his hand between them, wrapping his long fingers around both their dicks, and began stroking them in tandem, long strokes that had Derek’s balls drawing up, hurtling towards the edge. Derek had to tear his lips from Stiles’ and pull back.

“Don’t...I’m—I want to come in you.” Stiles nodded, understanding. “Move back,” Derek commanded. Stiles turned around and crawled back towards the headboard, giving Derek a tantalizing view of his back and bare ass. Derek couldn’t resist. He pounced.

Stiles managed an  _ oof _ as he landed flat on his stomach with Derek splayed on top of him. Derek chuckled before pushing up and running his hands up and down the flat plane of Stiles’ back, pressing his fingers into the skin. There was something about the indents that his fingers created in the skin that made Derek feel possessive. Stiles was giving up his body to be plied and worshipped, and Derek intended to do just that.

Derek trailed his hands to the perfection that was Stiles’ ass, usually hidden by shapeless khakis but now, round and pert and just begging for attention. His fingers trailed along the top of the curve, his palm pressed against the flesh, and he squeezed just enough to elicit a moan from Stiles. He pulled the cheeks apart, and Stiles’ breath hitched. Derek started salivating at the view of his perfect hole, waiting to be filled and claimed.

Derek needed it.

He trailed his hands down Stiles’ thighs, curling his fingers under Stiles’ knees and hitching them forward on the bed so that he was kneeling with his ass in the air, where there was more room for Derek to work.

The scent of Stiles at his purest was like a drug, and Derek’s hands trailed reverently up Stiles’ thighs again, sweeping along the junction of his ass and then trailing one hand down to gently rub over Stiles’ hole.

“Derek…” Stiles gasped, his head on his arms, and his hips jerked back with the touch.

“So. Beautiful,” Derek breathed, his mouth watering at Stiles’ scent. “I’ll take care of you.”

“I know you wi— _ holy fucking Christ. _ ”

Stiles’ back arched as Derek swiped his tongue along Stiles’ hole, and Stiles’ cry sounded both surprised and destroyed. Derek just groaned along his crack, diving further in to run his tongue in long strokes up and down Stiles’ skin. He dove his tongue inside, spurred on by Stiles’ moans and cries, and felt the muscles loosening and stretching around him.

“Derek...fuck...I didn’t—I didn’t know…” Stiles was mindless, his words starting and stopping in spurts between his groans and heavy breathing, and Derek would be lying if he said they didn’t spur him on even more. Stiles thrust his hips back against Derek’s face, and Derek slid his scruff against the sensitive flesh, feeling the skin warm and red under his touch.  _ God, he had wanted this. _ Anytime Stiles would be sassy or sarcastic (which felt like ninety percent of the time), Derek dreamed of having him splayed out like this, shutting him up by giving him so much pleasure he was reduced to nonsense.

When Stiles was nice and sloppy, Derek sucked his finger into his mouth to coat it and then dropped it to Stiles’ hole and pushed it in slowly next to his tongue, wanting to feel Stiles’ heat and feel the drag of his skin as much as he could.  Stiles moaned when he felt the finger breach, and he pushed his hips back. Derek pressed his other hand down on his lower back, holding him still. He kept working the rim with his tongue, feeling the rhythmic clench of Stiles’ hole. Hearing Stiles’ mindless sounds had him leaking precome all over the sheets, but it was worth every second. He moved his finger slowly, wanting Stiles to only feel pleasure as he slowly worked him open. The spit wouldn’t substitute for lube, but when he finally found the bundle of nerves he was searching for and Stiles let out a guttural groan, Derek knew it was enough for now.

“What the fu—holy shit, Derek.  _ Holy shit. _ There. _ There. _ ”

Derek watched as Stiles’ fingers grasped and released the sheet below his arms. Derek smiled and increased his pace, steadily nudging Stiles’ prostate, and pressing his other hand harder into Stiles’ lower back, holding him still as he worked first one finger, then two, against those nerves in a steady rhythm.

Stiles was a blubbering mess of sounds and words, none of them making sense. Derek kept one small part of himself trained on Stiles’ pleasure, making sure his heartbeat never raced too fast, that his pain never spiked. He wanted everything about this to be as perfect as it could be. Stiles was slowly and steadily falling apart under Derek’s hands, and he couldn’t have been more pleased about it.

“Derek, please.  _ Please. _ ”

Derek was hard and throbbing, watching Stiles’ control disintegrate beneath him. One day soon, he’d bring Stiles to completion just like this. But for now, he wanted to watch Stiles fall into his orgasm. He wanted to witness the man he loved at his moment of highest pleasure.

Derek slowly removed his fingers, and Stiles whined and collapsed against the bed, his breathing labored. Derek grabbed Stiles’ hips and flipped him over, breathing out, “I need to see you.” Stiles willingly let himself be manhandled. His eyes were mostly closed, and Derek knelt between his legs, watching him for a moment.

“You still with me?” he asked softly, running his hands up and down Stiles’ torso. Stiles didn’t answer, but barely nodded his head and let out a quiet  _ mmm  _ sound. Stiles’ dick was flush against his stomach, red and twitching, a mess of precum against his skin. Derek leaned forward and licked at it, the taste bursting against his tongue, and he was instantly addicted.

“Yur gon’ break me,” Stiles managed between breaths.

Derek smiled against his stomach. “That’s the plan.”

Derek sat back on his knees and grabbed the lube and coated a generous amount on his dick. Stiles managed to open his eyes and watch.

“Goddamn, yur sexy.”

Derek smiled. “Have you seen you?”

“Tha’s my line,” Stiles teased.

Derek leaned over Stiles, “You ready?”

In answer, Stiles lifted his legs, holding his hands behind his knees. Derek waited for a moment, but Stiles was all anticipation and arousal and excitement, not a trace of pain or nerves anywhere.

The moment Derek’s dick breached Stiles’ hole, something inside Derek was released. A final puzzle piece falling into place, the last note of the symphony written down to make the masterpiece complete. He worked himself slowly in and out of Stiles’ body, and everything felt like it was exactly how it was supposed to be. Like all of the pain and the heartache and the tears that had formed a tough armor all over Derek’s body just dissolved into his skin. He stared into Stiles’ eyes as his hips slowly moved in and out, the delicious heat driving Derek higher and higher, and he felt raw and exposed and simultaneously safer and more secure than he had in his entire life. 

Stiles mouth dropped when Derek was almost seated all the way inside, and Derek had to close his eyes and concentrate. He wanted to bring Stiles to orgasm first. He wanted this to be perfect for him. But damn it was taking everything out of him. He was so hot. So—

“So fucking  _ tight _ , Stiles.”

Derek was straining to allow Stiles time to adjust. His arms bracketed the body underneath him, his just holding himself above Stiles’ space. He wanted to wait, but every time Stiles shifted his hips or exposed his neck, he pulled Derek in just a little more, and it was  _ agony. _

“S’big. S’full.”

“Is it okay?” Derek gritted.

“‘ _ Ncredible. _ ” 

Derek dropped his eyes to watch as his dick moved in and out, Stiles slowly opening up around him. Derek felt when the tension released and his movement became more fluid, his slide in and out made easier. He gritted his teeth with the pleasure and he couldn’t help but punch his hips forward. He worried that he’d hurt Stiles

“ _ Yessss _ ,” Stiles hissed and opened his eyes. “Like that. I need you to stop being gentle, and  _ fuck me,  _ Derek _. Now.” _

“Are you sure?”

Stiles put his arms around Derek’s neck dragged him down into a drugging kiss. He lifted his hips to fuck himself up onto Derek’s dick, and Derek moaned into Stiles’ mouth.

He couldn’t hold back anymore. He began fucking into Stiles with earnest, and when he buried himself deep, Stiles’ moans were like kindling. He reached down and wrapped his hand around Stiles’ dick, stroking him in time with his own motions. Stiles’ eyes rolled into the back of his head, and Derek could see his toes curling as he tried to nail his prostate with each thrust.

“Derek...God, I love you, I’m gonna...I’m gonna come—I’m gonna come—”

A few more strokes with his hand on Stiles’ dick and he was coming, up across his chest and stomach, and Derek wanted to sear the memory of Stiles’ face when he orgasmed into his brain forever. It was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. A couple more strokes and Derek was following not far behind, pressing himself against Stiles’ ass and releasing deep inside him with a loud groan.

Derek collapsed against Stiles’ chest, bracketing most of his weight on his elbows, and took deep pulls of breath into the skin on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles’ heart was pounding, Derek could hear it as loud as a drum, and it was occasionally punctuated by whimpers of pleasure that Stiles didn’t seem to realize he was making.

He’d never experienced anything like that. The emotional connection between the two of them was so visceral, and adding it to the physical bond had Derek feeling wrung out and depleted. But also incredibly vulnerable. His heart felt raw and open, and he had to hold Stiles as close as he could.

When Derek felt like he had regained his composure enough to move, he slowly lifted his head to look at Stiles’ face.  He moved one hand to rest at his temple, brushing back a bead or two of sweat that had accumulated there.

Stiles, for all intents and purposes, was a mess. His eyes were watery, one side of his face was red from being smashed into the bed, his hair was disheveled and his lips were bee-stung, undoubtedly from being chewed on. There were red beard burn marks on his neck and his chest was flushed. But to Derek, Stiles had never looked more incredible—completely fucked out and blissful.

But Derek had to be sure he was okay.

“Stiles?”

One of Stiles’ hands fumbled up to Derek’s mouth, covering it. “If you ask me if that was okay, I’m going to kick you in the pancreas.”

Derek felt his ears flush, and he ducked his head to press a kiss onto Stiles’ collarbone.  
  
“My god, Derek. We’re going to have to update the bestiary.”

Derek pulled his head up to stare at Stiles in confusion. “What?”

“Like, do all born werewolves have magical dicks, or is it just you? Because what you just did was nothing short of miraculous.”

Derek rolled his eyes.

“—No, I’m serious! The dick thing, and  _ the tongue thing _ ? I have odes to write, my friend.  _ Odes _ . Oh! Or maybe sonnets. Yes. Sonnets to your dick and your hands and your tongue and that thing that you did with your fingers…”

Derek silenced Stiles with a kiss. When he pulled back, he was sure he was looking at Stiles with the most ridiculous, lovesick expression on his face, but he didn’t care. He  _ was _ ridiculous. He  _ was _ lovesick. And even more amazingly was that Stiles loved him right back the same way.

Stiles cupped Derek’s face. “Seriously, dude.  _ Magical. _ ”

Derek smiled softly. “Glad you approved.”

“We’re going to do that  _ so _ many more times. Rafael’s gonna have to live without me for a while longer, because I might never leave at this point.”

“I’ve already had the FBI on my ass, I don’t need any more trouble because his best analyst can’t get enough of my dick.”

Stiles’ hands drifted down to Derek’s ass, holding it protectively. “Rafael won’t be able to get anywhere near this ass. It’s  _ mine.” _

Derek felt his softened dick slide out of Stiles’ hole, and Stiles groaned. “Whoa, that feels really weird.”

Derek really wanted to dive down, to bury his nose into their combined smells, to stuff his come back into Stiles’ hole and keep it plugged there until their scents were indistinguishable.

“Whoa, really?” Stiles asked. Derek flushed when he realized he had definitely been saying that out loud. “No, no,” Stiles insisted. “I’m into that.  _ Totally _ into that sometime. Just...I thought, maybe we could take a bath?”

The slow-spreading smile across Derek’s face couldn’t be helped. “A bath, huh?”

“Yeah. With you.”

Derek pressed a kiss to the tip of Stiles’ nose. “I’d like that.”

He reluctantly left Stiles in the bed, heading to the bathroom. He turned on the water, testing the temperature, and pulled some salts out of the cabinet, pouring them into the stream before heading back into the room. Stiles was lying on his side in the bed, and Derek stopped short at the sight of him.

He was lying on his side, his perfect ass facing the door where Derek could see the wetness slowly leaking from his hole. His hand was stroking his hip, and Derek could see the redness where his stubble burn had left marks on his ass, his thighs, his neck. Derek was captivated, and still in awe that this could be a part of his life. That somehow, in all the mess and the nonsense, he had come out on the other side with this.

“We messed up these awesome sheets.”

Derek shrugged. “Worth it.”

He crossed over to the bed and hoisted Stiles into his arms, capturing Stiles’ surprised shriek in a deep kiss.

“I love you,” Derek said softly.

Stiles smiled gently, resting his forehead against Derek’s. “I love you, too.”

Derek carried him into the bathroom, the tub water at the perfect depth. He sank Stiles into the water, ass first, turned off the tap, and then stepped in behind him, leaning back against the wall of the tub and maneuvering Stiles between his legs and pulling him back against his chest.

Stiles was quiet for a moment or two, fidgeting slightly as he got comfortable in the tub.

“This is weird.”

Derek was resting his head against the back of the tub, warm in the water and comforted by Stiles’ weight against his chest. “How so?”

“Don’t you think about the fact that you’re just...sitting in your own filth?”

“Not really, not. I’m too busy relaxing.”

“Right. Relaxing.” Stiles settled his head back against Derek’s shoulder. “In your own filth.”

Derek would worry about Stiles’ enjoyment of the bath if it weren’t for the teasing notes in his tone. “You can go back to bed and use a baby wipe to clean your chest and your ass, if you want.”

Stiles pulled on Derek’s arms, wrapping himself up and anchoring them to his chest with his own arms. “Relaxing in my own filth with you is better than a  _ baby wipe, _ Jesus.”

Derek kissed Stiles’ temple. “That’s what I thought.”

It was quiet for a few moments, and Derek’s arms began stroking up and down Stiles’ arms and across his chest.

“You ready to go again already?” Stiles asked teasingly.

“No, I just...I haven’t let myself touch you for so long…”

“Can’t get enough of me, eh?”

Derek didn’t answer, but pulled Stiles closer against his chest.

“Well, I’m not complaining. Your hands on me is basically one of my new favorite things.”

“ _ One of?” _ Derek asked.

“Yeah. Next to the Mets, my Jeep, my pillow, and spicy chicken ramen.”

Derek chuckled. “Where do my hands fall on this list?”

“Hmm…” Stiles deliberated. “Probably between my Jeep and my pillow.”

Derek felt Stiles’ chuckle against his chest. “Well, I guess it’s good to know where I stand.”

Derek was just feeling himself completely relax, when Stiles piped up again. “Do you really just...sit in here?”

“Usually. Sometimes I read.”

“Oh yeah? Your books don’t get wet?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Not all of us are as uncoordinated as you.”

“Hey, I’m coordinated!”

Derek chose to stay quiet on that one. The fact was, Derek had seen Stiles trip over a grout line on the kitchen floor before. He was better than he was in high school, but it was still astoundingly poor compared to werewolves.

“Actually,” Derek said, “I think you’d like the book I’m reading now.”

“What is it?”

Derek reached behind him and pulled a book out of the small storage bin he kept tucked behind the back of the tub. He handed it to Stiles with a warning not to drop it.

“ _ The Alchemist. _ Again? Weren’t you reading this a few months ago? 

Derek nodded. “It’s one of my favorites.” 

“What’s it about?”

“A young boy who dreams of treasure and then goes on a quest.”

“Does he find it?”

“You should read it.”

Stiles settled back against Derek’s chest, his head against Derek’s shoulder. He flipped through a few pages. “You’ve underlined a lot in here,” he remarked.

Derek looked over his shoulder at the book. “I guess so. There’s a lot that speaks to me.”

Stiles was quiet for a while, the only sounds in the room were the turning of the page and the occasional water ripple against his skin when he chose another part of Stiles’ body to caress. He let his mind wander. Was this whole thing good for Stiles? Was he okay that they took this step? Things had been so good between them. So good, in fact, that Derek was considering talking to the Sheriff, and making things more official between them. 

Even so, it was hard for him not to have twinges of doubt—it was a terrible habit, to question what he felt so sure about, but he’d been horribly wrong about people before. Even as he was thinking it, he warred against himself. Stiles couldn’t possibly be like anyone from his past—not even on his worst day. But Derek still questioned himself.

“Derek,” Stiles said softly. “I see why you like this book.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, Santiago is basically you. But I...um...I think I found a part that describes  _ us _ .”

Derek's heart flipped. He had often felt a kinship with Santiago, with his journey in the story. But also, he felt like Santiago’s love, Fatima. He wondered what Stiles meant. “Tell me.”

Stiles cleared his throat and held the book, reading out loud quietly but clearly.  _ “It was the pure Language of the World. It required no explanation, just as the universe needs none as it travels through endless time. What the boy felt at that moment was that he was in the presence of the only woman in his life, and that, with no need for words, she recognized the same thing. He was more certain of it than of anything in the world. He had been told by his parents and grandparents that he must fall in love and really know a person before being committed. But maybe people who felt that way had never learned the universal language. Because, when you know that language, it’s easy to understand that someone in the world awaits you, whether it’s in the middle of the desert or in some great city. And when two such people encounter each other, and their eyes meet, the past and the future become unimportant. There is only that moment, and the incredible certainty that everything under the sun has been written by one hand only. It is the hand that evokes love, and creates a twin soul for every person in the world. Without such love, one’s dreams would have no meaning.” _

Stiles stopped reading and turned his head. “Derek?”

Derek couldn’t speak. It was the confirmation Derek’s heart needed. He wanted to tell Stiles that he loved that passage, too. That he had often felt like Stiles was the one person in his personal journey that spoke his language. That he hadn’t understood love until Stiles came into his life and turned it upside down. He had met many on his journey to his own “personal legend”, his purpose for life, but no one had met him in the way that Stiles had. But he was overwhelmed and just swallowed thickly.

“Derek? Say something.”

Derek laid a kiss on Stiles’ shoulder. His throat felt tight, but he cleared it as best he could. “Santiago considered giving up his dreams and staying with Fatima. But instead, he left her in the desert, even though he loved her.” He took a deep breath. “Do you remember, right before you went to Virginia, asking me if there was any reason to stay?”

Stiles nodded. “I wanted you to open that door.”

“I almost opened it. But I didn’t want you to be like Santiago, to consider giving up your dream for me.” Derek took the book from Stiles’ hands. He flipped a few pages and read out loud,  _ “You’ll walk around, night after night, at the oasis, and Fatima will be unhappy because she’ll feel it was she who interrupted your quest. But you will love her, and she’ll return your love. You’ll remember that she never asked you to stay, because a woman of the desert knows that she must await her man. So you won’t blame her. But many times you’ll walk the sands of the desert, thinking that maybe you could have left...that you could have trusted more in your love for Fatima. Because what kept you at the oasis was your own fear that you might never come back.” _

Stiles turned around more fully, his hand drifting to Derek’s chest. “But I  _ did _ come back.”

Derek nodded and flipped back a couple more pages, to a well-worn page with a dog-eared corner. He didn’t really need to read it out loud—he had this memorized at this point because he had so frequently thought these lines in the middle of the night, when he dreamed of Stiles, when he hoped for his return. He held the book and spoke the words quietly, directly into Stiles’ ear.

_ “I had a dream, and I met with a king. I sold crystal and crossed the desert. And because the tribes declared war, I went to the well, seeking the alchemist. So I love you because the entire universe conspired to help me find you.” _

Stiles’ eyes were soft. “Well, I didn’t sell crystal or cross the desert, but...I trespassed on your land. And I got you put in jail…”

“You were possessed by a demon fox spirit,” Derek added. “I was cursed to be a high schooler again…”

“You left Beacon Hills—”

“—So did you.”

Stiles looked away, dropping his head. “I started a life with Lydia.”

Derek used his free hand to tip Stiles’ chin back up. “But you came back.”

Derek smiled a soft smile. Stiles grabbed the book from Derek’s hand and searched the page, his eyes landing in one spot for a moment before looking Derek in the eyes.  _ “So, the entire universe conspired to help me find you.” _

Derek took the book from Stiles’ hand and dropped it to the floor. Stiles leaned into Derek’s chest and kissed Derek softly. Derek wrapped his arm around Stiles, his other caressing his face and his neck, saying without words what his heart wanted to say.

It didn’t matter what came next. If they stayed in Beacon Hills, or moved on to other places. It didn’t matter the danger, they’d keep each other safe the way they always had.

What mattered is that they would be together. They’d face things together.

Together.

 

*************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for joining me on this journey! When I tell you I agonized over the sexyfuntimes in this chapter? Whew. This was a new foray for me, so I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Thank you as always to Erin and Pantsie for helping me hammer out some details, and for being the insanely amazing support system they always are.
> 
> Thank you, RubyRedHoodling, for creating the beautiful art that inspired this fic in the first place. [Go here](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/im2old4thisotp/183947795423). to see it!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this story.
> 
> I live for comments, so I'd love to hear what you think.
> 
> Find me on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/im2old4thisotp).


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